
Book ' P ^ ^ 



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DAYS OF THE PAST 



DAYS OF THE PAST 

a jHeDle^ of pitxmxit^ 



BY 

ALEXANDER INNES SHAND 

AUTHOR OF 'OLD-TIME TRAVEL* 



NEW YORK 

E. P. BUTTON AND COMPANY 

190S 



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CONTENTS 

CHAP. PAGE 

I. THE RURAL REVOLUTION i 

II. THE CHANGES IN LONDON 15 

III. THE EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL AND 

RESTAURANT 29 

IV. IN LONDON LODGINGS 53 

■ V. THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES .... 72 
. VI. OLDER EDINBURGH 91 

VII. OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM . .111 

VIII. SOME MILITARY MEMORIES . . . .136 

. IX. SOME FLUTTERS ON THE STOCK EXCHANGE 159 

X. LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS . . . .172 

XI. MORE LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS . . ,201 

XII. FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN^UM . . . .225 

XIII. RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN . . .250 

XIV. KEEPERS AND HILL SHEPHERDS . . .273 
XV. THE SHEPHERDS AND THE POACHERS . 291 

XVI. THE LAST OF THE ROAD 304 



CHAPTER I 

THE RURAL REVOLUTION 

Lord Cockburn, in his Circtnt Journeys, remarks 
on the marvellous improvements he had seen on 
his progresses through Aberdeenshire. Memory 
does not carry me quite so far back, though I 
have seen his lordship seated on the bench, but 
I can remember much of the devolution of the 
transformation. Few of the semi-lowland shires 
had to contend with greater disadvantages. The 
uplands were highland ; the midlands were hill 
and moss ; and the eastern flats, with the bleak 
coast of Buchan, are swept by bitter gales from 
the Pole. In Buchan, trees and bushes were 
shaved, as with a razor, when they rose above 
the shelter of the 'dens.' The climate was severe 
and the soil unkindly. Sand dunes fenced the 
county from the Atlantic gales, yet a parish had 
been buried there under the sand drift. The 
ground was fertile in granite, yet it is a remarkable 
fact that the venerable buildings of Old Aberdeen 
were of imported freestone, which shows that the 
Aberdonians of ancient days, if enterprising, were 
not resourceful. It was very different with the agri- 
culturists in the nineteenth century, and especially 

A 



2 DAYS OF THE PAST 

towards the middle of it. They bid, with the 
Lothians, for a lead in high farming, and showed 
the world the way in cattle breeding. They were 
among the first to appreciate the value of guano, 
and they found that their farms, freely manured, 
reared such rich crops as were not to be seen else- 
where. In a dry season in southern England the 
worried partridges find no cover in either turnips 
or mangolds. In Aberdeenshire you wade over 
the knee ; you can only work with the most 
powerful dogs, and the swedes after a morning 
shower hold whole bucketfuls of water. So with 
exuberant winter-feeding, Aberdeenshire breeders 
invested money in shorthorns and the polled 
Angus. Naturally they went in for enclosures. 
In my own boyhood I can recollect on the crofts 
and small farms — even now there are few farms 
rented above .^200 — the barefooted herd-boys and 
herd-girls shouting after the scraggy beasts they 
had in charge, for ever encroaching on neighbours' 
boundaries. Now, the boys and girls with shoe 
leather and stockings are at the board schools ; 
and, except to scare the crows from the crops, there 
is no necessity for their services. When the fields 
were being cleared for the plough, loose stone 
enclosures, but substantially built, followed as 
matter of course. The stones must be disposed 
of somehow. The worst of those dikes was that 
they became almost impregnable refuges for 
vermin. Stoats, weasels, and rats, with the mis- 



THE RURAL REVOLUTION 3 

chievous rabbits, bid defiance to the keenest ferrets. 
That clearing the ground was a costly business 
for improving landlords. I have seen enormous 
granite blocks, locally denominated 'haythens,' 
occupy skilled men a day or two in drilling and 
blasting. 

Johnson declared there were no trees in East 
Scotland, and Cockburn said much the same of 
Aberdeen. He did not take count of the ma^ni- 
ficent pines in the forests of Deeside, or the sylvan 
* Paradise ' of Monymusk ; of the beeches and 
elms round many an ancestral fortalice, and of 
the clumps of wind-beaten ashes that screened 
the cottage or the lonely homestead. But I have 
seen sheltering plantations of spruce springing up 
everywhere — they have drawn clouds of cushat- 
doves, as destructive as the rabbits — and it is 
only a pity that larches did not take the place of 
the spruce or the silver fir. For larch always 
commands a sale for fencing and building pur- 
poses, whereas in the heavy 'windfalls,' after some 
devastating gale, the spruce lies rotting, a drug 
in the market. 

Wheat was a delicate exotic and a speculative 
crop. On the estates I used to shoot over, I only 
remember a single field annually sown and stead- 
fastly persisted with, and that was on the sunny 
North Mains of Barra, near the scene of the first 
decisive battle won by the Bruce over the 
Comyns. But everywhere the skirts of the 



4 DAYS OF THE PAST 

heather were going back ; isolated patches of 
morass were being reclaimed ; the grouse was 
giving way to the partridge, and the snipe to 
the landrail. But even the belated oat crops 
were failures in cold, showery years, and the great 
stand-by of progressive farmers with capital was 
their cattle. M'Combie of Tillyfour, and Grant 
Duff of Eden, the father of Sir Mountstuart, were 
notable for their pedigree herds. The most famous 
of all was Amos Cruickshank of Sittyton, the 
quaker, who had grudged no money in purchases, 
and had brought his herd of shorthorns almost to 
perfection. He rented two of the best farms from 
a cousin of mine. His steading was within half a 
mile of the house where from my nursery days 
I had always found a home. His annual sales of 
bull calves drew admiring purchasers from all 
Scotland, from England, and the Colonies. The 
sale began with a parade of the superb fathers of 
the herd. The mansion overflowed with guests 
from the county, who came in vehicles of every 
kind, and their horses found shelter in byres, the 
stabling of the home-farm, or anywhere. The 
sale was preceded by an early dinner at the farm. 
But the quaker, who was a temperance man, stuck to 
his principles, and, contrary to the universal practice 
in the county, gave the visitors nothing stronger 
than indifferent beer. On one of those occasions 
he was scandalised when one of the gentlemen 
from the house brought up half a dozen, of port 



THE RURAL REVOLUTION 5 

and as many of champagne for his own immediate 
circle. Yet though the bidders came to the scratch 
unprimed, the bidding was none the less spirited, 
and the pick of the calves fetched what were then 
considered inordinate prices. Cruickshank did 
well and died in affluence ; but he cut his own 
throat, for as his stock was disseminated his sales 
fell off. 

On the other hand, I saw how the ordinary- 
breeders gained with the opening of the railways. 
Formerly they sent their cattle by road, losing 
flesh and condition, to local markets that were 
overstocked. The trucks on the rail opened easy 
communications with the south, till the prime beef 
from Aberdeen and Angus fetched the top prices 
at Leadenhall, and arable land was broken up 
for the * grass parks ' which were more surely 
remunerative. 

At that time rents were rising fast, till they 
actually boomed. Forty years ago, one of the 
trustees on the personal estate of a wealthy iron- 
master complained that though they were in- 
structed to invest solely in land, they could not 
buy at reasonable prices. The idea then was that 
'the land could not run away,' and few were far- 
sighted enough to foresee the prospective fall. 
The shrewdest of Scots, with money in bank, were 
inclined to discount a golden future. A relation of 
my own age had a twenty years' minority. He 
might, on coming of age, have come into a great 



6 DAYS OF THE PAST 

sum of ready money. He did not find a shilling 
to his credit, but his estates were in grand con- 
dition. The friendly and capable Writer to the 
Signet who had administered them conscientiously 
believed he had been actinsf for the best. Farm 
steadings had been rebuilt or extended ; roads had 
been made ; diking, draining, and ditching had 
been carried out on a colossal scale. That was a 
somewhat exceptional case ; the factor may have 
overshot the mark, but, more or less, the same 
thing was going on in many places. Some of the 
cottages, or rather hovels, which were cleared 
away were primitive in the extreme. Built of 
loose stones, they were roofed with turf, and the 
smoke partially escaped through an aperture over 
the peat fire, where a cask roped with straw did 
doubtful duty for a chimney. There were two 
so-called rooms, 'a but and a ben,' and in the 
bigger was the box-bed, where the bulk of the 
family slept. One of these hovels, I remember, 
was tenanted by an old gentleman, who had his 
croft rent free for doing 'orra jobs' about the 
mansion house. He used to drive cattle in a 
flowing, flowered dressing-gown, which had been 
passed on to him, and he only shaved his grey 
beard at long intervals. One of my earliest re- 
collections is seeing him biting off the tails of a 
litter of terrier puppies in the courtyard. He was 
a philosopher in his own way, and with the free 
run of the servants' hall and butler's pantry, he 



THE RURAL REVOLUTION 7 

took life easily. He never complained. Once 
when the landlord paid a morning visit, he splashed 
from the drainage outside the door into a puddle 
within where some ducklings were disporting 
themselves, and the wet was dripping over him 
from the blackened rafters. 'Why, John!' was 
the exclamation, ' you are in a terrible state here, 
we must have your roof overhauled.' 'Ay, it's 
lettin' in some water,' was the quiet reply, 'but it's 
gey thick, and there are but antrim drops, and the 
wife and I do weel eneuch in the bed under our 
auld umbrella.' 

Then the larger tenants universally had nineteen 
years' leases, and would have liked them longer, 
though the tenure was secure ; but a few of the 
farms and the crofts had been passed on from 
generation to generation, and the Lowlands, like 
the Highland 'tacks', were run somewhat on the 
patriarchal system. That was expressed in the 
old phase and phrase of the 'kindly tenants.' 
Part of the rent was invariably paid in ' kain and 
carriages.' The kain was a certain number of 
fowls, to be duly delivered, and under carriages, 
the tenants were bound to do a certain amount of 
carting of coals, etc. As to these old imposts, there 
is a good story in Sir Walter Scott's Journal. 
There was another restriction the tenants liked 
less. They were 'thirled' to the landlord's mill, 
— that is to say, they had to bring all their corn 
to be ground there at a fixed rate. The old mill 



8 DAYS OF THE PAST 

was a favourite resort of us boys. We used to 
revel in the smell of the fresh meal, descending 
in cascades, groping in it, wrist-deep, and devour- 
ing it too, by handfuls. Then there was the deep 
mill-lade under the great moss-grown wheel, with 
the speckled trout shooting into darksome crevices, 
and within gunshot was the sedgy dam, shrouded 
with dark willow and alder, haunted by mallards, 
teals, and waterhen. 

There was a more serious grievance the tenants 
brooded over, though they took it in acquiescent 
silence. Reform, enlarging the roll of the 'old 
freeholders,' had given them votes, but no shadow 
of political power. The county was a safe Con- 
servative seat, and though occasionally there was a 
contested election, the result was a foregone con- 
clusion. The politics of the landlords were known ; 
they simply counted heads and brought their 
tenants up to the hustings. To take a special 
instance. A liberal-minded relative of mine took 
great and justifiable credit for giving one of his 
farmers leave to vote Liberal. But the man was 
an educated vet, son-in-law of an invaluable old 
bailiff, which extenuated what in other circum- 
stances would have been an unpardonable act of 
treachery to the order of the landlords. Retribu- 
tion came in due course, with the ballot and the 
passing of new reform acts. There was a reaction 
with a vengeance, and for many a year the Tories 
had never another chance. 



THE RURAL REVOLUTION 9 

If the farmers clung to the land, the farm hands 
were always changing. The good ploughmen and 
* horsemen ' hiad high wages, but the supply was 
always in excess of the demand. Nor had they any 
great attraction to any particular place, for their 
living was everywhere coarse — brose and kail, por- 
ridge and skim milk — and the quarters invariably 
of the roughest. Thanks to close friendship with 
an old keeper who pigged with the farm folk, I 
paid frequent visits to their joint bedroom in one 
of the most generously managed of home-farms. 
It was a loft in which confusion was worse 
confounded ; soaking and muddy garments were 
tossed about, and the rough beds unmade in the 
middle of the afternoon. The young woman who 
cooked and did for the men had charge of the 
dairy as well, and she would have given them 
even less attention, had not the arrangement been 
far from conducive to morality. Rural morality, 
indeed, was at a low ebb, though it is only fair to 
say that the fair sinner generally ended as an 
honest woman and settled down into sober matri- 
mony. The farm servants were restless, and they 
had periodical opportunity of changing places 
at the * feeing ' or hiring markets, held all over the 
country. Great festive occasions these markets 
were, combined with the cattle and sheep sales, 
before the railway carried stock to central depots. 
There were booths of itinerant merchants, travelling 
shows, and above all, refreshment tents, flowing 



lo DAYS OF THE PAST 

with whisky and porter. Ere night fell, the most 
sober of the men were concerned in liquor, and 
the girls, stuffed with sweets and gingerbread, 
were flaming forth in bright shawls and gaudy 
ribbons, the gifts of temporarily devoted swains. 

Then prosperity was the rule rather than the 
exception, though there might be wet autumns 
and poor harvests. There was little question of 
reduction of rents, till they had been abnormally 
raised by the good times and lively competition. 
I have often looked in on rent day, on the little 
square room at the home farm, where the clerk of 
the Edinburgh agent sat with a square decanter 
of whisky at one elbow and the old grieve at the 
other. Man after man walked in, handed over 
his grimy notes, made the inevitable requests, did 
a moderate amount of grumbling, swallowed a 
bumper and walked out. At midday all sat down 
to a substantial dinner, with toasts and steaming 
toddy ad libitum. Every other occasion was 
seized for a festivity — a coming of age, a wed- 
ding, or sometimes even a funeral. It was amusing 
to mark how the stereotyped speeches used to run 
in the identical grooves, except with the parochial 
clergy, who were florid and professional orators. 
How eloquently they did flatter the laird, and 
even remote connections of the family ! The 
oldest tenant who proposed his health always 
quoted the maxim of 'live and let live,' a shrewd 
hint of what was expected by the canny Scots- 



THE RURAL REVOLUTION ii 

men, and the fiddles of the orchestra, according 
to the county paper, invariably * discoursed sweet 
music ' in the intervals. 

The fiddlers feasted with the rest, but they 
earned their money. There were local celebrities 
like 'Wandering Willie,' who were everywhere in 
request, and the quantity of toddy with which 
they refreshed themselves was astounding. For a 
ball invariably succeeded these special dinners. 
The scene was a long loft, decorated with ever- 
greens or flowers, where reels and country dances 
alternated in endless succession. The gymnastics 
grew more violent as the night went on. It was 
tremendously hard work, and took it out of one 
more than the longest clay's shooting. I was hard 
enough then, but often I have tumbled into bed in 
the small hours, to wake towards noon, aching in 
every limb. But these jovial rural carnivals have 
been going out of fashion. Some of the straighter- 
laced of the gentry said they were prejudicial to 
morals, — which possibly was true, for as Christopher 
North wrote, it was a perilous temptation for an 
enamoured bachelor, seeing the belle of the ball 
home across the bloomincr heather. But the more 
probable explanation is, that the ties between land- 
lord and tenant have been loosening, and with 
chronic reduction of rents, the shoe has been 
pinching severely. 

I had heard more than I saw of the old con- 
viviality. I can only once recall a gentleman 



12 DAYS OF THE PAST 

committing himself in a drawing-room, where he 
came a cropper over an ottoman and went a header 
on the hearth-rug. And he was a genuine survival 
of the old school, a boon companion of the fox- 
hunting Lord Kintore of his time, and of the Lord 
Panmure of Brechin, noted as one of the three 
hardest drinking peers in the islands. His arbi- 
trary hospitality was commemorated by ' Nimrod ' 
in TAe Northern Tottr, when he firmly refused the 
request of a brother-in-law, who, after the party 
had been mixing their liquors for hours, humbly 
' supplicated ' for a tumbler. My father was an 
abstemious man, but he could speak of nights with 
Lord Panmure at Brechin Castle, of which we find 
almost fabulous reports in the Biography of Con- 
stable — not the artist, but the publisher. And 
at my father's own seat of the Burn, on the 
North Esk, the summer houses on the romantic 
walks along the overhanging banks were sections 
of Madeira hogsheads, emptied at the entertain- 
ments of Lord Adam Gordon, his predecessor in 
the property. 

If I saw any other signs of excess, it was at state 
funerals. No doubt things had mended much 
since the days of Duncan Forbes of Colloden, 
Lord President of the Court of Session and the 
most venerated of Scottish statesmen, when he set 
the example of drinking so deep at the funeral of 
his much-lamented mother, that when the proces- 
sion reached the kirk, it was found the corpse had 



THE RURAL REVOLUTION 13 

been forgotten. But still, when the ceremony- 
came off in a chill winter day, the company, who 
had gathered from far and near, expected generous 
cheer, and did it ample justice. It was an odd 
blending of mourning — more or less sincere — and 
joviality. Friends were pleased to meet, and 
there were long arrears of local gossip to be 
discussed. All turned up with broad 'weepers' of 
cambric, stitched on the coat cuffs. The dealing 
out of scarves, hat-bands, and gloves, was followed 
by the circulation of wine and cake, and that by 
prayer and solemn words of exhortation. When 
the cortege came back from the vault, which was 
often miles away, though many families had their 
private mausoleum within easy reach, the mourners 
to a man were chilled and famished. Nothino- 
could be more welcome than the announcement of 
the late luncheon, and sorrow served only to give a 
keener edge to the appetite. The strong ale and 
the wines flowed freely, and frequently there was a 
melancholy contrast between the oblivious con- 
viviality of the hungry guests and the efforts of 
the grief-stricken entertainer to do the honours. 

But on these melancholy occasions there were 
invariably those from whom the bereaved family 
was sure of sympathy. Domestic servants and 
out-of-door retainers knew well when they were 
well-off, and seldom left the situations in which 
they had been bred and almost born. The boy 
who was entered to knives and boots, often died 



14 DAYS OF THE PAST 

a grey-haired butler, with the keys and carte 
blanche over the cellar, and unlimited vicarious 
authority. The housekeeper, who might have been 
trusted with untold gold, was equally paramount 
in her own department. They kept a saving eye 
on details, and drove their subordinates with a 
tight rein, but, like Caleb Balderstone, they made 
the honour of the family their own, and prided 
themselves on the profusion of the table. There 
were no diners a la Russe, with finikin carving at 
the side table ; and the board used to groan under 
the load of good fare, with such trifles as pairs of 
goslings and turkey poults for side dishes. So the 
show of cold and r^chauffd on the sideboard at 
next morning's breakfast was superb. But it 
was at weddings or the funeral feasts that they 
felt bound to surpass themselves. I have seen 
one venerable retainer, a beloved friend of my 
own, nerving himself manfully for his onerous 
duties at a funeral luncheon, filling the glasses 
indefatigably, whispering recommendations of choice 
dishes into the ears of his numerous acquaintances, 
and then breaking down in sobs and retiring to 
the pantry till he had pulled himself together 
to resume his painful task. When the guests 
were gone he took to bed, and only got out of it 
to be retired on a pension. 



CHAPTER II 



THE CHANGES IN LONDON 



The reign of Victoria saw marvellous transforma- 
tion scenes in London. According to that once 
popular novelist, G. P. R. James, Simon Reynard, 
the intriguing Spanish ambassador, remarked epi- 
grammatically that in the Tower he read the history 
of England. The Victorian era was a record of 
imperial expansion with London for the loadstone. 
The growth of the overcrowded metropolis ex- 
ceeded the expansion of an empire which had been 
casually annexing kingdoms and principalities. 
When her accession was announced to the o-irl- 
heiress at the semi-rural palace of Kensington, 
England had barely found breathing-time after 
the exhausting struggle in which she had fought 
one half the continent and subsidised the other. 
When she celebrated her jubilee, the Empress- 
Queen, though latterly she had lived in retirement, 
was the idol of a nation which under her rule had 
been rapidly growing rich. The fleet assembled 
at Spithead was the visible sign of supremacy on 
the ocean. Battleships, armoured cruisers, and 
torpedo boats were the watch-dogs of the com- 
merce which had been bringing wealth to the port 



15 



i6 DAYS OF THE PAST 

of London. London had been the centre of many 
industries which till then had been indifferent 
to foreign competition. The national credit had 
never stood higher, and in the superabundance 
of golden or gilt-edged securities, Sam Weller's 
' reduced counsels ' stood at an exceptional premium. 
Floating on the flood of the swelling Pactolus, 
London had at last begun to realise its responsi- 
bilities. Private expenditure was stimulating public 
munificence. The architect with ideas had a free 
hand, and the speculative builder never had a better 
time. Antiquated structures and squalid back 
streets were swept away ; luxurious mansions and 
decent dwellings were rising in their places. If 
there was a dreary monotony in the stuccoed fa9ades 
of new crescents and terraces, there was no denying 
the improvement in the general effect, and still 
more in substantial comforts. Punch might sneer 
at the squirts in Trafalgar Square, and laugh at 
the lions of the Nelson Column ; but there are points 
of view, such as those of the Palladio-like Govern- 
ment Offices from the water-bridge in St. James's 
Park, which rival those from the Ponte Vecchio of 
Florence, or the Schiavoni of Venice. 

Though falling into the yellow leaf, memory does 
not take me back to Queen Victoria's accession ; 
but as a very small boy I can remember the birth 
of the Princess Royal, the loyal excitement in 
Edinburgh, and the salute from the Castle that 
shook the town. Two years afterwards, on my 



THE CHANGES IN LONDON 17 

first visit to England, I sailed for Liverpool from 
the Glasgow Broomielaw in the superb new steamer, 
the Princess Royal — I forget her modest tonnage. 
That summer I went no further south than Leam- 
ington, where now I miss the avenue of noble elms 
which then shaded the promenade. I was intro- 
duced to Victorian London a few years later, 
when we drove by the Chevy Chase Coach through 
the Border scenery from Edinburgh to take the 
North-Eastern train at Newcastle. Dick Whitting- 
ton never looked back so longingly to London as 
I looked forward. I little thought how much I 
should see of it later, and how well I should know 
the flags in Pall Mall. Nor were my dreams of 
golden-paved streets and gold to be had for the 
gathering. Even then a voracious reader and 
highly sensitive to casual associations, London 
sights and London celebrities were to me at that 
time a very loadstone of attraction. Our first sight 
of London, our first impressions of the Continent, — 
these are landmarks in the memory, never to be 
obliterated. Byron seldom wrote a truer or more 
melodious couplet than — 

* There 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away. 
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay.' 

Novelty gave point to the excitement which was 
sometimes calmed, but seldom satiated. I know 
not what I enjoyed most — the sculptured tombs 
of monarchs in the Abbey or the monuments of 
fallen heroes in the Cathedral church — the survey 

B 



t8 days of the past 

from the caged summit of the Monument, the 
pessimism of whose guardian had depressed Tom 
Pinch, another young man from the country — the 
esplanade at Greenwich Hospital, with the old 
blue-coated pensioners crawling about like torpid 
wasps, or the quaint Chinese junk, moored off 
Blackwall, with its silken hangings and porcelain, its 
carvings in jade and its uncanny idols. Then there 
were the Zoological, and the Thames Tunnel, with 
its dimly lighted bazaar, and Madame Tussaud's, 
where we looked longingly at the forbidden door 
of the Chamber of Horrors, and one even had fear- 
some pleasure in the scientific Polytechnic, where 
you were shocked by electric batteries, and had 
the excitement of the descent in the diving-bell. 
Verrey's, with its cakes and its ices, was nearly next 
door. You felt agreeably lost in the whirl of the 
Strand and Fleet Street, with the blocks of traffic, 
and the show in the shop windows ; it was like visit- 
ing the bazaars of Bagdad or Bassorah in company 
of Haroun Alraschid and his vizier. The white- 
aproned touts at the portals of Doctors' Commons 
reminded you of David Copperfield and of old Mr. 
Weller, let in for his rash matrimonial venture. 

There were no omnibuses then to the north of 
the Tweed, and the London four-wheeler, or the 
dashing hansom, was a vast improvement on the 
' minnibus ' of Edinburgh — a local speciality like a 
covered Irish car, which was an exceedingly tight 
fit for four, and which more than once broke down 



THE CHANGES IN LONDON 19 

ignominiously when taking me to catch an early 
steamer at Granton Pier. And apropos of aquatics, 
that was the golden age of cheap and quick con- 
veyancing on the river. The Dahlias and Sun- 
flowers, and the numbered ' Watermen,' were plying 
perpetually from Putney to Greenwich, but most 
industriously between Hungerford Stairs and 
Paul's Wharf. Owing to their flying moorings 
against the tide, they would smash their paddle 
boxes like swift steamers on the rapid Danube, cast 
off again, and, go on as if nothing had happened. 
They had run the old wherrymen and scullers off 
the Thames, and in fine weather were formidable 
competitors to the omnibuses. 

But all minor sensations were swallowed up in 
the anxiety for a glimpse at the Queen. We had 
gone to Eton to draw a cousin in Dr. Goodford's 
house — he was then Mr. Goodford — and the expedi- 
tion was to include a visit to the castle where Her 
Majesty was in residence. Often since then I have 
admired the historical pile when pulling past on 
the river, and thought how costly it would be to 
take it over a repairing lease, but in that glorious 
day in June, the glories of the palace-chateau were 
lost upon me. My Eton cousin's mind was set 
upon ices in the morning, a dinner at the White 
Hart towards eve, the probable tip to follow. I 
could think of nothing but the assurance that the 
Sovereign was going for a drive at three, and that 
I should actually see her in the body. Ever since 



20 DAYS OF THE PAST 

I have understood and sympathised with the loyal 
enthusiasm of provincial crowds who flock in a 
suffocating crush to cheer a royal progress. Pre- 
ceded by its outriders, the open carriage left the 
castle gates and swept down the Long Avenue. 
I can see the youthful matron, as she was then, 
sitting by her husband's side, bowing and smiling 
graciously. Her hand was unconsciously caressing 
the Princess Royal, who was standing and bending 
over her mother's knee. Seated as she was, you 
did not note the shortness of stature on which 
Greville remarks in his flattering notice of her. 
Quietly dressed, yet with some touch of coquetry 
in the summer toilet, she seemed to me a dazzling 
vision of grace and beauty. She was smiling again 
when I saw her at her Jubilee, with grey in her hair 
and furrows on her brow, but how much had she 
done and seen and suffered in the interval ! 

With half the world I was in London again in 
the Great Exhibition year. The Crystal Palace 
enclosing some of the secular timber in Hyde 
Park, conceived by the Prince Consort and planned 
by the chief of the Duke of Devonshire's hot- 
houses, was a monument of progress, fondly meant 
as a cosmopolitan Temple of Concord, and the 
symbol of a new departure in amicable commercial 
relations. Never shall I forget the first stupefying 
effect on a youth who had scarcely dreamed of 
such fairy-like splendour. With the courts dis- 
playing the wares of the world, with the crash of 



THE CHANGES IN LONDON 21 

music and the blaze of colours, with the views 
down the long vistas under Venetian streamers, 
with the sculptures and groups of statuary scattered 
along the aisles, with new enchantments awaiting 
you at every turn, it was a vision of the Arabian 
Nights from which you feared to awaken. One 
crowd was pressing round Hiram Power's Greek 
slave, another around the Koh-i-noor, securely 
guarded by policemen. But the half-exhausted 
mines of Golconda were outshone, for America 
showed a towering obelisk of gold to advertise 
the newly discovered treasures of California. 

All nations had come up to the great show, as 
Jews used to flock to the festivals of Jerusalem. 
The scanty hotel accommodation was overcrowded : 
Claridge's and other aristocratic resorts could pick 
and choose among royalties and foreign princes. 
But the oddest and most picturesque gatherings 
were in Leicester Square and in Seven Dials. 
Punch and the new police paid special attention 
to the troops of out-of-elbow strangers who had 
found their way across the Channel. What they 
came for, or how they paid their way, no one could 
exactly say. They were attended by agents of 
the Rue Jerusalem, by emissaries from St. Peters- 
burg, Vienna, and Berlin, and shadowed by 
detectives from Scotland Yard. I was taken one 
evening to dine at a restaurant in Leicester Square 
— I think it was Berthollini's, celebrated in the 
parody of a popular song by Albert Smith — and a 



22 DAYS OF THE PAST 

queerer assemblage I had never set eyes on. At 
that time when Mechi of Tiptree Hall and agricul- 
tural celebrity was making a fortune by his razors, 
everybody shaved, except scamps and cavalry 
officers. In that gathering the absence of the 
barber was more conspicuous than the neglect of 
the washerwoman. Napkins were tucked under 
collarless chins ; the fork was a casual auxiliary to 
the knife ; the plates were carefully cleaned and 
the sauces mopped up by use of a bread-crust ; 
and in the guttural confusion of cosmopolitan 
speech you might have been among the scattering 
builders of Babel. The entente cordiale notwith- 
standing, P^mck was humorously satirical on our 
French friends. Two of his sketches I well 
remember. One presented a couple of briskly 
Parisian badauds taken aback by the startling 
surprise of a sponge and basin in the Exhibition. 
' Tiens, Alphonse, quest-ce que c'est que fa ? * says 
Jules to his comrade. Another was a night scene 
from the top of the Haymarket, with ladies in crino- 
line and a lavish show of silk stocking, inscribed : 
' Some foreign produce we could very well spare.' 

On the other hand, even when the Christmas 
agricultural shows used to be held in Baker Street, 
never before was the town so full of rustics, 
bent upon brief enjoyment of life in London. On 
frequented routes there was no getting a seat in 
the omnibuses ; cabmen took outrageous liberties 
with simple-minded country folk. It was not then 



THE CHANGES IN LONDON 23 

the custom to run plays in the theatres, but pieces 
that had caught on were being given night after 
night at the leading houses. I remember how the 
spectacular ' Princesses of the Alhambra ' drew at 
the Princess's, not so much because the gorgeous 
decorations anticipated the splendours of a future 
generation, as because Flexmore the famous clown 
played the Princesses' pet monkey. When he 
caught his tail in a chest, and aggravated his 
agonies by passionately stamping on the lid, all the 
spectators were convulsed. In fact, we provincials, 
trained upon travelling circuses and strolling com- 
panies of actors, cared for sensations and sights 
rather than refinements. We were as keen upon 
Punch and Judy in the streets as Sampson Brass's 
eccentric lodger in The Old Curiosity Shop ; we 
were always brought to a stop at the bottom of 
Suffolk Street by the cage of the happy family, 
where the owl blinked amiably at the cat lying 
down with the mouse ; and we paid more than one 
visit to Astley's, over Westminster Bridge, where 
Mr. Widdycombe, as Napoleon, had been gratui- 
tously advertised in the Bon Gaultier Ballads. 
However the evening might be passed, ' it was 
pretty sure to end at Evans's,' where the topical 
songs were suited rather to the Georgian than to 
the Victorian era. Chops and Welsh rabbits were 
the order of the night, but the consumption of 
shellfish there and at Scott's and other night- 
houses in the neighbourhood of the Haymarket 



24 DAYS OF THE PAST 

was extraordinary. Lobsters and oysters were 
unaccustomed delicacies to the cotton spinners of 
the Palatinate and the men of the Midlands. Then 
the oysters were so cheap, that, as old Mr. Weller 
had observed to Mr. Pickwick shortly before, the 
poor of Whitechapel, when tending to despair, 
made a rush for the oyster stall instead of the gin 
palace. Oysters and stout were still as natural a 
sequel to the play as when Walter Scott, who 
was being feasted everywhere and by everybody, 
climbed the corkscrew stairs from the boxes in 
the Old Adelphi to sup with Daniel Terry in his 
* squirrel's cage.' 

I had seen the Queen and Prince Consort on 
my previous visit. Even as a boy it had struck 
me that there was something of foreboding melan- 
choly in the Prince's handsome face, and I was at 
Gibraltar when the news of his death threw the 
garrison into genuine mourning. In the Exhibi- 
tion year, being comparatively at rest as to 
Royalties, my ambition was for a sight of the 
Iron Duke. I did see the national hero, and 
followed him as he walked his horse up Con- 
stitution Hill to the mansion that was given by 
the gratitude of the nation. There the lower 
windows were still closed by the iron shutters, 
memorials of the fickleness of the mob, which 
would have torn him from his saddle, had it not 
been for the interposition of Peel's new police. 
With abstracted face, gazing fixedly before him, 



THE CHANGES IN LONDON 25 

mechanically he kept raising his finger to the brim 
of his hat, in answer to the incessant salutations 
he rather expected than saw. A light-weight, 
for he was spare of figure and stood barely five 
feet seven, he sat his horse with the ease of the 
habitual horseman, who used to strike across 
country in southern France when hounds were 
running, and breathe the best mounted of his 
aides-de-camp in the gallop to visit his distant 
outposts. The dress in the severe military style 
was faultless ; the buttoned blue frock-coat, the 
white ducks tightly strapped down, and the stock 
with the silver buckle showing conspicuously 
behind. 

At that time the Duke, with his commanding 
influence and his pre-eminence in politics, had 
been singled out as the subject of endless cari- 
catures which figured in the printshop at the 
bottom of St. James's Street, side by side with 
engravings of his numberless portraits. Two of 
the caricatures I specially remember. One repre- 
sented a stage coachman in heavy capes with great 
bone buttons, subscribed, ' The man wot drives 
the Sovereign ' — counterpart to another of Earl 
Grey — ' The man wot drives the Opposition.' But 
more artistically effective was a shadowy face, the 
stern and determined features loomino^ throuo-h a 
haze, with the motto : — 

' What seemed a head. 
The image of a kingly crown had on.' 



26 DAYS OF THE PAST 

Even satire treated the Duke with the reverence 
due to a heroic personality, and the caricatures 
flattered the authority they sought to undermine. 
When he was carried on the State car to 
St. Paul's in the following year, some remorse 
must have mingled with the general mourning, 
and I was sadly disappointed that I missed the 
memorable funeral. The many incidents were 
vividly described by juvenile correspondents not 
much in the way of letter-writing : all the world 
from the highest to the lowest was in a state of 
feverish excitement, and I recollect hearing among 
other things how the old Duke of Cambridge 
had galloped down St. James's Street at a break- 
neck pace to clear up some passing confusion 
among the guards before the palace. 

Strangely enough, perhaps, I was almost as keen 
about another celebrity, and was lucky enough 
to see him in 'the Lords.' If the caricaturists 
treated Wellington respectfully, with Brougham 
both caricaturists and lampooners took the freest 
fling. Never had so gifted a man laid himself 
open to such scathing ridicule. Memories of his 
younger days, revived by Lockhart's Life of Scott, 
were still rife in the Edinburgh Parliament House ; 
of those days when the audacious young advocate, 
going on the Border Circuit, used to make poor 
old Lord Eskgrove's life a burden. Eskgrove, 
by the way, with his vacuous repetitions, was 
undoubtedly the original of Sir Robert Hazlewood 



THE CHANGES IN LONDON 27 

in Guy Mannering. And the Nodes Ambrosiancs, 
in which Brougham had been praised and merci- 
lessly scarified, were still in the flush of their 
popularity. A terror in debate, an encyclopaedia of 
universal knowledge, all marvelled at the amazing 
grasp of the genius which in the same day, as his 
secretary told Greville, could flit from Chancery 
suits to philosophy and mathematics, and after 
correcting proofs for a ' Library of Useful Know- 
ledge,' wind up with a tremendous philippic in 
the House of Lords. There was no getting to 
the bottom of his bodily strength ; there was no 
overtaxing the power of his brain. Yet there was 
so much of the monkey or the mountebank in that 
universal genius that Sampson was for ever making 
sport for the Philistines. Punch had just depicted 
him standing on his head, flourishing his legs 
and the Bliicher boots in the air — the Bluchers 
Thackeray sketched in the Snob Papers, — with 
the commentary, ' What he will do next.' The 
piquancy of the eccentric contrasts made me 
eager to see him, nor was I disappointed. Take 
him all in all, he was one of the ugliest of mortal 
men, and apparently he prided himself on setting 
off his personal deficiencies. The lofty forehead 
scarcely redeemed the mouth, the nose, the cada- 
verous complexion, and the eyes under their 
shaggy penthouses, that lent themselves so easily 
to most diabolical scowls. Wellington was aus- 
terely spick and span ; Brougham was one of the 



28 DAYS OF THE PAST 

worst-dressed men in the kingdom, in a day when 
statesmen and legislators were still among the 
dandies. He wore the famous plaid trousers : it 
was said he had picked up a web of the stuff, sold 
\^ at a sacrifice, after spending fabulous sums on a 
Yorkshire election. There was a catch-phrase in 
those days of * What a shocking bad hat ! ' But 
Brougham's headpiece was the shabbiest it was 
possible to conceive, a battered beaver with the 
bristles rubbed the wrong way, which no old 
clothesman would have picked out of the gutter. 
His gestures were grotesque as those of Johnson, 
and in his oratory he carried action to the heights 
and depths of absurdity. He swung his arms like 
a round-hitting prize-fighter, and bellowed like a 
bull of Bashan. I had longed to see him, nor was 
I surprised or disappointed. He was pretty much 
what fancy had painted. Brougham was a hisus 
natures^ and is still a psychological puzzle. Neither 
I nor any one else is likely to look on his like 
again. 



CHAPTER III 

THE EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL AND RESTAURANT 

In the middle of last century, and for years after- 
wards, few cities were so miserably supplied as 
London with commodious hotels and decent 
dining places. It is amazing now to contemplate 
the spirit of contentment which acquiesced in 
indifferent entertainment and resigned itself to 
uncomfortable quarters. In the matter of hotels 
the explanation is more simple, for till railways 
and steamboats brought customers to town there 
was little encouragement for enterprising inn- 
keepers. But Londoners, like other people, had 
to dine, and many of them must go out of doors 
to look for a dinner. Even young men of means 
and some position were much at a loss. The clubs 
were few, the membership was far more limited 
than now, and moreover dining in those some- 
what solemn establishments was left more or less 
to elderly fogies. Of dining-rooms and popular 
taverns there was no dearth, but the internal 
arrangements, the attendance and the cooking, 
left much to desire. For a year or two before 
as a very young man I was balloted into the 
Wyndham, I prowled the streets each evening 

20 



30 DAYS OF THE PAST 

in search of food : after I was introduced to the 
comforts of one of the most homelike of clubs, 
still I often shared the adventurous fare of less 
fortunate comrades left out in the cold. But 
when I first came to the front, the days of rough- 
ing it were going by, and the tavern had already 
given way to the restaurant. No man need have 
asked a better English dinner than that provided 
at Simpson's in the Strand. Simpson was the 
gastronomic Napoleon of a new epoch. A daring 
speculator who always saw his way, in after years 
he successfully ran Cremorne. I believe he was the 
brother of the other Simpson who originated the 
famous fish dinners at Billingsgate ; where in the 
queerest company, with rough cooking and rude 
cutlery, you fared sumptuously for the small charge 
of eighteenpence. But Simpson's restaurant in the 
Strand was attractively mounted ; the tables were 
decked in snowy drapery, and the peripatetic 
carvers, with aprons tucked up in their waist- 
belts, were faultlessly attired in spotless white. 
Peripatetics they were, for it was a conception of 
genius to wheel the joints on small round tables to 
your elbow and let you select your own cut. A 
healthy appetite may have had something to say 
to it, but never before nor since have I seen such 
saddles or sirloins. Charles, the head waiter, was 
omnipresent, ready, like deaf old M. Pascall of 
Philippes's in the Rue Montorgueil, with recom- 
mendations and suggestions. The marrow pud- 



EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 31 

dings were features of the establishment, and the 
Gruyere and Camembert, then comparative novelties, 
were ranged on the side table with the ripe Stiltons 
and Cheshires. The liquors were of the best, but 
after dinner you were not driven out of doors nor 
were you bound to sit drinking for the good of 
the house. Passing through a tobacconist's, you 
mounted to a 'divan ' on the upper floor. If I re- 
member rightly, you paid a shilling at the door, 
for which you had coffee in a breakfast cup — 
which was a mistake — a cigar and the use of 
chess boards, backgammon boards, and the day's 
journals. 

Simpson's drew amazingly as it deserved, but it 
soon found a formidable, though ephemeral, rival. 
Greville in his Memoirs speaks contemptuously 
of the Wellington, but the Cruncher was a fine 
gentleman and hyperfastidious. Possibly, too, 
his conservative sentimentality saw something of 
sacrilege in turning Crockford's temple of vicious 
fashion open to the profane vulgar. For the Well- 
ington took possession of the palatial premises at 
the top of St. James's Street, where the old fish- 
monger kept open house for all and sundry who 
were inclined to play the deuce with their fortunes 
at the hazard table. There Disraeli had laid his 
opening scene in Sybil, on the Derby eve when 
Caravan was the favourite for the great race. There 
Whyte Melville's Digby Crand threw his last dice 
before adjourning in despair to pass the night upon 



32 DAYS OF THE PAST 

a bench in St. James's Park. There more reckless 
gamblers had beggared themselves than at Watier's, 
for Crockford's had had a far longer lease of 
life. Crockford's in its time had been the resort 
of every celebrity : of foreign statesmen like Talley- 
rand and Metternich ; of warriors like Wellington 
and Blucher ; of men of letters like Byron, Moore, 
and Bulwer Lytton ; of wits and sybarites like 
Luttrell and Alvanley, and of all the rabble rout of 
loose men about town who followed in the train 
of the leaders of society. 

I do not know that we gave much thought to 
those memories or conjured up the gay scenes of 
that vanished past. What we liked were the lofty 
rooms with their spacious windows, and the general 
sense of luxury given by gilded cornices, somewhat 
tarnished, and tall mirrors. Not that these would 
have sufficed to allure us. But the English fare 
was as good as at Simpson's ; there was greater 
variety in the entrdes and entremets, and the table 
appointments were in keeping with the surround- 
ings. There were green glasses at your elbow, 
suggesting ' hock,' for then the various growths of 
the Rheingau and the Gironde were unscientifically 
classified and seldom ordered. Then the ordinary 
tipple was Burton bitter ale, frothed in frosted 
tankards, supplemented by the modest half pint 
of nutty sherry, with which Sydney Scraper solaced 
himself at his club in the Snob Papers. The 
march of luxury has been moving fast since then. 



EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 33 

Now the sort of men who were content then 
with sherry and beer, are become curious in 
Champagnes, L^ovilles and Liebfraumilchs, and 
all the choicer second growths. 

For port and beef-steaks there was no better 
place than the Blue Posts in Cork Street. By the 
way, there was another Blue Posts in the Hay- 
market of much more questionable reputation. To 
dine satisfactorily at the Cork Street house, you 
had to be introduced by an /ladihi^ who had the ear 
of the head waiter and the pass-key of the cellar. 
It was a favourite haunt of Anthony Trollope, 
and in TAe Claverings he has given a sympathetic 
description of one of those snug little Blue Posts 
dinners, which must have been answerable for a 
good deal of gout and chronic indigestion. If the 
Blue Posts was famous for its steaks, Clunn's in 
Covent Garden was renowned for its Welsh mutton 
and marrow bones. It was in the north-west 
corner of the piazza, beside the portal which led 
down to Evans's. It was a sombre house, and 
you dined in a long dark slip of a room, with one 
large window at the eastern end. But the dark 
mahogany tables were miracles of radiant polish, 
as in old country mansions, where they were the 
pride of the chief butler, and at Clunn's the cloth 
used to be swept off before the decanters were 
brought in. The menu was good Old English, 
and the head waiter a true-blue Conservative. I 
used to ruffle him till he had got accustomed to my 

c 



34 DAYS OF THE PAST 

eccentricities, by my predilection for legs of mutton 
boiled with caper sauce. Roast was the rule of 
that orthodox establishment. The mock turtle or 
thick oxtail was followed by salmon, cod or turbot, 
and marrow bones were the invariable sequel to 
the mountain haunch. As for the marrow bones, 
they might have been elephantine, except that 
elephants, owing to some malformation, have no 
marrow. There was always a suspicion that they 
were fictitiously packed : be that as it may, they 
tempted to a surfeit and were invariably corrected 
by a caulker of Glenlivet. Then with the Stilton 
and the devilled biscuits at dessert, carefully de- 
canted port, as venerable as any from the bins at 
the Blue Posts, was placed on the mahogany. 
Now and again the landlord when in genial mood 
was to be 'wiled,' like Meg Dods of the Cleikum, 
out of a bottle of 1820. It came up shrouded in 
the cobwebs. Clunn's, though essentially a dining 
house, professed to be an hotel, and once when I 
had run up to town for the night, I arranged to 
take a bed there. The dining-room was darksome 
enough, but it was brightened by good company 
and good cheer. The fusty first-floor front smelt 
like a charnel house when you had withdrawn to 
its solitude from merry society, and getting into the 
great fourposter with its sable hangings was like 
stepping into a hearse. It may have been the 
marrow bones, the Stilton or the port, but never had 
I such a night of appalling nightmares. 



EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 35 

The London in Fleet Street was a west central 
reflection of the Wellington, chiefly frequented by- 
lawyers from Lincoln's Inn and the Temple, by 
prosperous clerks and well-to-do tradesmen. The 
St. James's Hall was opened when the Wellington 
had closed. The Cafe de 1' Europe, next door to 
the Haymarket Theatre, had a mixed and motley 
clientele. Started by an actor from the Adelphi 
who somehow found the capital, it had a strong 
theatrical connection. Then fashionable patrons of 
the drama, like Lord William Lennox, were mixing 
on a familiar footing with the shining lights of the 
stage. And the Cafe de I'Europe was cheek by 
jowl with the Raleigh Club, where billiards and 
broiled bones were the order of the night, towards 
the small hours. So the cafe was patronised by a 
rather fast set for dinners before the play and for 
suppers subsequently. I fancy there was a room 
on the upper floor where ladies were received with- 
out awkward questions being asked as to their 
marriage certificates. But the cafe was reputably 
conducted and the French cookery was more than 
fair. Of the second class French restaurants about 
Leicester Square, in St. Martin's Lane, I can tell 
nothing from personal experience. As I have said, 
I paid a single visit to one of them and was 
not tempted to repeat it. Berthollini's and 
Dubourg's were sung by Albert Smith and Angus 
Reach in topical lyrics, and described in their 
shilling brochure (the Lounger in Regent Street, 



36 DAYS OF THE PAST 

or Sketches of London Life), which caught on 
amazingly. 

To the east of Temple Bar the classic taverns in 
Fleet Street were still flourishing. Had some of 
the most famous only held out a little longer, they 
would surely have renewed their youth and re- 
trieved their fortunes, with the extraordinary 
impulse given to journalistic work. There were 
Dick's and Anderton's and the Cheshire Cheese, 
where you could superintend the cooking of steak or 
chop and say for yourself when it was done to a 
turn. There was a Mitre in Fetter Lane — not the 
Mitre where Johnson moralised to Boswell and 
mapped out the programme of his studies at Leyden. 
All of these had their admirers who clung to them 
from habit : most of them elderly gentlemen in the 
yellow leaf, who loved solid fare and crusted port, 
or struggling barristers who were content with 
tankards of ale, with something hot and strong to 
follow. On sentimental grounds I once sought the 
Cock in Fleet Street, to be sadly disillusioned. 
There was no sign of Tennyson's plump head 
waiter, — perhaps he was peacefully sleeping in the 
vaults of St. Clements Dane. A few purple-faced 
old gentlemen were still clinging to the place, but 
it was pervaded by a general air of drowsiness 
which extended to the service and the smoulder- 
ing fires. I ordered a steak as de rigueur : in vain I 
waited, and after a volcanic explosion I fled and 
chartered a hansom for Fall Mall. Now I see 



EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 2>7 

there is a Cockerel in Shaftesbury Avenue, where 
no doubt there is a very different clientele. 

In those days, on my return from sojourning on 
the Continent, there was nothing I enjoyed more 
than the luncheon in the city. The contrasts 
were so striking from the solitudes of the Alps, the 
shores of Lake Leman, the dead-alive towns of 
stagnating Germany, even from the comparatively 
leisurely traffic of Brussels or Paris, to the roar of 
crowded streets, and the endless blocks in funereal 
procession of cabs and omnibuses. I used to hurry 
off to look up a cousin on the Stock Exchange, the 
best of good fellows, who was barely earning 
enough to pay his errand boy, and the bustle and 
scramble in Capel Court, the bellowing and bar- 
gaining from the privileged interior worked like a 
tonic. Under his guidance we dived into some dark- 
some alley and turned aside into Reuben's or Joe's 
or Ned's. How different from the Cafe Riche or 
the Maison Doree, even from Champeaux in the 
Place de la Bourse, where speculators and coulis- 
siers would assemble at high noon to empty flasks 
of burgundy or champagne and indulge in all 
manner of meretricious delicacies ! In London men 
hustled each other at a bar, or sat, packed pro- 
miscuously at the small tables, with cloths that 
hinted economy in washing bills. You had barely 
elbow room to ply knife and fork, but if you were 
not pressed for time, it was a most amusing scene, 
though the manager looked askance at loiterers. 



SS DAYS OF THE PAST 

The steak or chop, served piping hot, was unexcep- 
tionable ; the mealy potatoes in their wrinkled 
jackets, were such a dream of perfection as is 
never realised in watery Ireland, where they are 
invariably waxy ; as the frothing tankards of ale or 
stout were refreshing after a course of light wines, 
and admirably adapted to the atmosphere. But 
all these early dinner houses closed their doors 
long before the shellfish shops in the Haymarket 
thought of taking down their shutters. Once, with 
a friend, in a fit of frugality, I went into the city 
about six p.m. to dine economically. We drew all 
the familiar luncheon coverts blank ; at one or two 
an old charwoman was sweeping out the place, and 
evidently suspected us of nefarious designs. In 
point of economy the expedition was a failure, but 
we might have been worse off. For Painter's in 
Leadenhall Street was round the corner, and there 
one could feast luxuriously. The window of the 
Ship and Turtle, like that of Chevet in the Palais 
Royal, was always an entrancing sight, with the 
shellbacks from the Caribbean Sea or Ascension 
floating in the tanks, an agreeable change for them 
from the painful deck passage under tropical sun- 
blaze, and all unconscious of their impending 
doom. And mystery lent a halo of romance to the 
treasures of calipash and calipee in the cellarage. 

You breathed calipash and calipee as you 
climbed the thickly carpeted staircase, and you 
were never kept waiting. Half a dozen oysters 



EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 39 

from Prince's in the Poultry, or Sweeting's in 
Cheapside, and the silver tureen with its fragrant 
contents was on the table. Hobson Newcome's 
brother-in-law remarked that Pendennis dininof in 
Bryanston Square did not 'ave twice of turtle. 
At Painter's I am ashamed to remember that we 
used to 'ave twice or thrice of it, and that it rather 
whetted the appetite for the subsequent beefsteak. 
If port was associated with Clunn's or the Blue 
Posts, madeira and old East Indian sherry were 
the specialties at the Ship. But if the Ship were 
the house for a turtle dinner, it was to Birch's in 
Cornhill you gravitated for a turtle lunch. Birch's, 
between the Guildhall and the Mansion House, 
maintaining the gastronomic credit of the Guilds, 
was the city counterpart of Farrance's at Charing 
Cross, which had it all its own way in ices, pastry, 
and light refreshments, and prided itself on the 
graces of its pretty waitresses. 

It is strange that Black wall should have abso- 
lutely dropped out of the running among down- 
river dining places, though, perhaps, it is stranger 
that it should ever have been a popular resort, for 
the purlieus were the reverse of inviting. But as 
the Chevalier Beaujeu of the Fortunes of Nigel 
used to say, I have memory of the great bow 
window at Lovegrove's or the Brunswick, sus- 
pended over the river. It reminded you of a box 
on the grand tier in the opera house, or of the 
salon on the entresol of the Caf^ de Paris, on the 



40 DAYS OF THE PAST 

Boulevards, where, sitting breast high above the 
pavement, you watched the high tide of Parisian 
Hfe. But the aquatic panorama passing Blackwall 
was more characteristic of the great tideway of 
commerce, and infinitely richer in cosmopolitan 
romance. The towering East Indiaman, with high 
poop and spacious stern galley, the swift Aberdeen 
clipper, aspiring to beat the record in the tea trade, 
went lumbering by in tow of snorting and puff- 
ing tugs, mingled with 'passenger pakidges,' as 
Mrs. Gamp would have termed them, bound for 
Flemish and French ports from the Tower Wharf. 
Sails and cordage were then in the ascendant ; 
there were no steel masts and wire shrouds ; and 
when the clipper cleared the river and swept down 
channel, under a press of billowing canvas, from 
sky-scrapers to flying jib, she was a sight still 
cherished by nautical sentimentalists like Mr. Clark 
Russell. I remember more than one Blackwall 
dinner, where the other tables were occupied by 
officers of the mercantile marine, who prided them- 
selves on being the smartest of seamen. They 
were giving themselves a send-off to the far East, 
or celebrating a happy return. What strikes me 
most forcibly now, in looking back, was the number 
of sprightly midshipmen, full of spirits doomed to 
be depressed, and of ambitions destined to be 
blighted. They were dressed in spruce uniforms 
of blue serge, and they tossed on to a side-table 
caps with a gold-laced band, embroidered with the 



EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 41 

Union Jack. The crack ships in Green's or other 
great mercantile firms carried a dozen or so of 
decently born and educated boys. What became 
of them all ? Even if they climbed to the cross- 
trees there was but a single command for a score of 
aspirants. 

Greenwich was then in its glory : like Richmond 
it has declined since rail and train have made 
transit cheap and common. Whyte Melville has 
thrown himself heartily from vivid personal remin- 
iscences into the description of the banqueting and 
the driving down in the drags, when his Tilbury 
Nogo fought the old waterman and got knocked 
out of time for his pains. Then from the begin- 
ning of the whitebait season, Ship, Trafalgar, 
and Crown and Sceptre were crowded to over- 
flowing. It is lonof since the Trafalo-ar struck 
its colours — a sign of the melancholy collapse. 
Then if you did not take a sixpenny steamer, — 
the pleasantest way of a summer evening, when 
the river was not as higfh as a haunch of over- 
hung venison, — you rattled down by street and 
road in some sort of conveyance. It was awkward 
work coaching a four-in-hand, or even piloting a 
lively pair in a phaeton among the crowds of 
coster barrows ; and it was a crucial test of nerve 
coming home of a Saturday night, if you could not 
confide in the skill and sobriety of your coachman. 
In those palmy days there were as many ostlers, 
helpers, and hangers-on about the hotels as waiters 



42 DAYS OF THE PAST 

— engaged for the short season — which is saying a 
great deal. There were as many carriages of all 
kinds, in the yards and before the door, as in the 
shops of Long Acre or the Baker Street bazaar. 
While you were kept waiting for dinner, as belated 
guests dropped in, the mudlarks scrambling for 
coppers under the balconies must have earned a 
working-man's wages. But the trains upset the 
jovial carriage traffic : steamers were chartered for 
special companies, like Her Majesty's ministers or 
the Fox Club, assembled for ministerial, political, 
or scientific banquets, and the Greenwich dinner 
gradually became more conventional and common- 
place. Moreover, the gratifying development of 
industry had a good deal to do with it : with the 
smoke from workshops and factories the summer 
evenings were clouded with a murky haze like a 
thin London fog, and the atmosphere, flavoured 
with unsavoury odours, became foul as the water in 
which the whitebait were fattened. 

In those early days an outing to Greenwich 
in June or July was delightful and refreshing. 
I fondly remember a little room at the Ship, to 
which, if possible, we always resorted. Panelled 
in heart of oak, it resembled a semi-circular galley- 
cabin. Half a dozen of us would seat ourselves 
facing the semi-circular open window. We did 
not go in for Lucullus-like luxury : there was a 
careful selection from the elaborate menu^ with 
champagne or cyder cup, as the case might be, 



EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 43 

according to the condition of our purses. But 
those modest gatherings of friends came to be 
popular in a certain set, like the literary breakfasts 
of Rogers or Lord Houghton; and there was no 
sort of difficulty in recruiting for them. Some- 
times we picked up chance acquaintances, while 
zigzagging from pier to pier in steaming down 
river from Hungerford. I recollect a young soldier 
thus getting a lift in his profession by meeting 
a distinguished Indian officer who took a fancy to 
him, and forthwith took him on to his staff. And 
at one of the first of those visits to the Ship, I 
remember one of the cheeriest of companions 
sitting so brooding and self-absorbed, that we 
naturally rallied him. Plucky to foolhardiness, 
I had seen him plunge into a backswirl under a 
Highland waterfall, simply because he was told 
the insuck meant death. He had been jubilating 
for a week before because he was ordered to the 
Crimea in charge of a draft of artillery ; that 
evening he was under the shadow of a foreboding, 
and when he thanked us for giving him a joyous 
send-off, he said gravely that he should never 
come back to us. His gloomy forebodings were 
realised, for on his first day in the trenches, a shell 
cut him in two. 

I never hear anything of Purfleet now : in the 
olden time there used to be capital dining there 
near the powder mills, and on far more frugal 
terms than at Greenwich. And I fancy the Falcon 



44 DAYS OF THE PAST 

at Gravesend must have fallen upon evil times ; in 
any case it must have changed its clientele. Steam 
has left the Falcon high and dry, as it knocked up 
the old posting-houses. In the days of the sails, 
all the East and West Indiamen, the Australian 
and Chinese clippers, when towed down the river, 
used to cast out their anchors off the town, and 
wait a night to pick up passengers and pilot. It 
has been a marvel to me that Dickens, who loved 
Gravesend so well, never made the Falcon the 
scene of one of his Christmas stories. Dickens 
had his home at Gadshill ; for three years I had a 
house at Farningham, and the Falcon had always 
a fascination for me. To compare great men with 
small, Dickens and I were both great walkers, and 
many a day we must both have lunched at the 
Falcon or at the Leather Bottel at Cobham. The 
Leather Bottel, with its low-roofed dining-room, 
its old oaken chairs and quaint engravings, was 
sacred to Dickens himself, to the memories of 
Tupman patching up a broken heart over a roasted 
fowl and a brimming tankard. But the Falcon was 
most ordinarily the inn of sad partings, and far 
less often of joyous reunions. There the outward- 
bound, sung by Mrs. Hemans, dropped anchor to 
have their last communications with the land. The 
old panes of cloudy glass in the coffee-room 
were scratched with initials of the dead and 
gone, and with all manner of inscriptions. The 
least sentimental of mortals could hardly look out 



EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 45 

on the river without an uneasy impression that, 
like Harvey, he was meditating among the tombs. 
Joys and sorrows are invariably intermingled, 
and within a mile or two of Gravesend was 
Rosherville, persistently obtruded on public notice 
as ' the place to spend a happy day.' When I had 
friends staying with me at Farningham, we often 
drove over to dine at the Falcon, and the sequel 
was a visit to Rosherville Gardens. Of a gala 
night they were a veritable carnival of Cockney- 
dom : a vulgar travesty of the more fashionable 
Cremorne, with promenades illuminated by varie- 
gated lamps, with shaded alleys, where the young 
folk keeping company could lose themselves, with 
gin, punch, and beer for champagne and liqueurs, 
and with the inevitable bouquets of fireworks to wind 
up the evening. But Rosherville had one advantage 
over Cremorne in the really romantic background. 
The hermit at Cremorne had a cave constructed 
specially for him ; the Rosherville recluse retired 
like the ascetics of the Thebaid to a cavern in the 
crumbling chalk, worn by the weather of the ages, 
or worked by the rude tools of prehistoric man. 
There you strolled about among the queerest 
contrasts of suggestive antiquity and modern 
vulgarity. Researches in the sequestered recesses 
of the chalk cliffs would have given Darwin or 
Professor Owen matter for speculation ; in the 
foreground was an omnium gatherum of plaster 
and stucco, interesting in its way as the art 



46 DAYS OF THE PAST 

treasures of the Vatican, and much more likely 
to be appreciated by the holiday makers who paid 
their shillings and took their choice. 

The metropolitan environs were then both rural 
and romantic. From Greenwich Observatory you 
looked over the Essex marshes to the rolling hill 
landscapes, with rarer visitations of obscuring fog, 
and from the terrace at Richmond there was the 
unrivalled view of the most enchanting of English 
valley scenery. In essentials I do not fancy that 
Richmond had greatly changed since John, Duke 
of Argyll and Greenwich, drove Jeanie Deans 
down to petition Queen Caroline, when the Scottish 
dairy-lass was chiefly impressed by the sleek kine 
grazing in the southern meadows. For the splash 
of paddles and the blowing off of steam, when going 
to Greenwich or Gravesend, one recalls the cheery 
echoes of light hoofs as the horses trotted home in 
the moonlight which silvered the secular oaks in 
Bushey Park, and irradiated casual glances of the 
winding river. For when a pleasant party had 
been got up beforehand, you went to Richmond by 
road. It might be on a drag, tooled by some 
expert whip, when the merry company was seated 
on the roof, and the grooms were carried as inside 
passengers. Or with sundry vehicles of various 
kinds, but all tolerably horsed, keeping well to- 
gether, and rather given to racing in friendly 
rivalry. There was the appetising lounge on the 
hill before dinner, or the stroll in the park among 



EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 47 

the deer and the bracken. The dinners, indeed, 
at the Star and Garter left something to desire ; 
and in the old establishment, since burned down, 
everything was on a modest scale, except the 
charges. In those days there were no cheap teas 
on the hill, at eighteenpence a head, to attract 
trippers and holiday-excursionists. The Star and 
Garter traded on its fashionable repute, but at 
the Castle, which has closed its doors, at the 
Talbot, or the Roebuck, you could dine more 
reasonably, and at least as well. Yet, if you cared 
for literary associations, there was this to be said 
for the Star and Garter, that it had figured in 
many a famous society novel. Lord Beaconsfield 
and Lord Lytton, Thackeray, Whyte Melville, 
Wilkie Collins, and Anthony Trollope had all 
taken down personally conducted parties to dine 
there. The Greville Memoirs and the Creevey 
Papers abound in Richmond reminiscences. When 
a scapegrace was running headlong on the race to 
ruin, or when an eligible was involving himself in 
an undesirable entanglement with some light of 
the stage or star of the ballet, their steps on the 
fatal down-grade invariably tended to Richmond. 
As for other hostelries up the river, I shall advert 
to them in the next chapter. 

Fifty years ago the greatest metropolis of the 
world was the worst provided with hotels. Not 
many travellers from the Continent found their 
way thither, and they were for the most part 



48 DAYS OF THE PAST 

impecunious refugees or of the classes who 
were content with poor accommodation. Foreign 
princes and nobles, diplomatists en voyage, or 
wealthy country gentlemen, paying flying visits 
to the town, were sumptuously housed at the 
Clarendon or Mivart's, Fladong's, much fre- 
quented by naval officers in the war time, had been 
closed, and the Old Slaughter's in St. Martin's 
Lane, patronised by Major Dobbin and George 
Osborne, was a forgotten memory. Gay gentle- 
men of the army forgathered in Long's and 
Limmer's ; houses where night was turned into 
day, and where, with the free and easy manners of 
the mess ante-room, no ordinary article of furniture 
was put to its proper use. It used to be said that 
at Limmer's — where John Collins, the head waiter, 
bequeathed his name to a seductive drink — the glass 
of gin and soda had the honours of the chair, while 
the man who gave the order sat on the mantel- 
piece. If a country cousin from the provinces had 
ventured into these hotels, or a nouveatt riche had 
risked himself in the coffee-room of the Claren- 
don, he would have found himself strangely out of 
his element. Civilians of the middle classes had 
to shift as best they could, though, unless there was 
something going on, such as the Great Exhibition^ 
or the Christmas Cattle Show in Baker Street, 
they found fair comfort in cramped quarters. 
Morley's in Trafalgar Square trembled on the 
verge of the fashionable ; and the Golden Cross 



E\^OLUTION OF THE HOTEL 49 

round the corner, of coaching fame, where Steer- 
forth renewed acquaintance with ' little Copper- 
field,' was a comfortable house. I was once 
recommended by a man in an Oxford set who 
patronised it to the British in Cockspur Street. 
Carlyle of Inveresk mentions it in his reminis- 
cences of one hundred and fifty years ago ; but I 
was never tempted to go there again. The whole 
place, with its dark passages and stifling bedrooms, 
might have been conveniently accommodated in one 
of the grand saloons of the Metropole or Carlton. 
But I have still pleasant recollections of Hatchett's, 
the old White Horse Cellar in Piccadilly, where 
in former days all western coaches from the city 
pulled up. Partly because, although much in the 
rough, it evoked memories of those coaching times. 
There was a sanded floor in the carpetless coffee- 
room, and you breakfasted — one never dreamed 
of dining there — in the old-fashioned boxes, like 
uncovered bathing machines. There was always 
a certain scramble and bustle, though the break- 
faster might have a long idle day before him, as 
if the Bristol mail or the Exeter Quicksilver were 
to draw up, sharp to time, in fifteen minutes. 
Coffee and muffins came in with a rush ; the toast 
had apparently been scorched on the surface ; 
and the invariable beefsteak, though juicy, was 
thin, as if cut to be passed in haste over a 
glowing gridiron. Cox's in Jermyn Street, with 
its sundry suites of small private rooms, was 

D 



50 DAYS OF THE PAST 

crowded with families from the country. I imagine 
that Anthony Trollope had it in his eye when he 
sketched Pawkins' — that * capital, good house ' — 
where Lord de Guest entertained his young friend 
Johnnie Eames, and Pawkins in person, in the 
solemn old style, brought in the silver soup-tureen. 
Lane's, up a cul-de-sac to the west of the Hay- 
market, was much affected by officers in the 
Company's service, and many a rather recherche 
little dinner was given me there by a cousin, who 
oscillated between that and the Blue Posts, and 
who worked hard for rheumatism, chronic liver 
complaint, and winters in southern Europe by 
his weakness for old port and for wading in his 
Deveron salmon water. Nor should I forget 
Fenton's in St. James's Street, much patronised 
by prosperous men of business from the provinces. 
But Covent Garden was still the centre of the 
unsophisticated stranger's gay life in London. 
There were many hotels there, and some have 
renewed a youth which dates from the period of 
Sir John Fielding and the scarlet-vested Bow 
Street runners. Year after year I used to resort 
to the Tavistock, flourishing still, although utterly 
transmogrified. The servants seemed to have 
taken out a lease of immortality. The porter in 
the hall — Pickwick we used to call him — never 
forgot a friend or a face ; he welcomed you with 
a broad smile, handing over any letters that might 
be waiting. The boots rushed out, grinning recog- 



EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 51 

nition, and the grey-haired head waiter consulted 
your tastes and anticipated your orders, like John 
at the Slaughter's when Major Dobbin turned up 
from Madras. It must be owned that the back 
bedrooms were gloomy, and that in the brighter 
front rooms rest might have been broken by the 
bustle in the Market, but at that age one slept 
sound. I liked the primitive larder on the first 
landing place, with the uncooked joints, the 
salmon, the lobsters, and the fruit tarts : I liked 
the six o'clock table d'hote — a convenient hour 
for the theatre-goers, with everything of the 
choicest, from the mulligatawny or oxtail to the 
Stilton and celery : above all, it was pleasant to 
come down to the cheery breakfast-room, where 
for the moderate fixed charge you could call for 
anything you pleased in reason, and where the 
side-tables were loaded with Scottish profusion. 
As lavish was the provision of the Times and 
other morning journals : the newsboys came to- 
wards midday to sweep them up and pass them 
on. Characteristic of the room were the basin 
breakfast cups without handles, the plates of 
water-cress, the luscious buttered toast and muffins. 
At the Tavistock they never bothered you with a 
bill : the sum total was inscribed on a tiny card, 
and if you cared to check it, there were the books 
in the clerk's box. I fancy no one ever did care 
to check it : there was confidence between host 
and guests. To this day, when in sentimental 



52 DAYS OF THE PAST 

mood, I love a stroll under the piazza, inhaling 
the odours of crushed oranges and rotting cabbage 
leaves. 

The railways brought the revolution. The 
growing influx of visitors was to be accommodated, 
and the railway companies saw their way to en- 
couraging traffic. What were then considered 
great caravansaries were built at Paddington and 
Euston, and they paid. They not only attracted 
travellers but London residents. An old bachelor, 
a connection of mine, was among the first, per- 
manently to engage a bedroom at the Great 
Western, locked up for him when he w^ent his 
annual round of visits, for he was welcome in 
many a country house. Now, as we know, in the 
matter of hotels, London shows the way to the 
capitals of Europe. 



CHAPTER IV 

IN LONDON LODGINGS 

In London below the upper bridges, the changes 
are transformation. When I first knew it as a 
temporary resident, the hotels, as I said, were poor 
and few, or aristocratic and ruinously expensive. 
The bachelor quarters were in St. James's, between 
Piccadilly and Pall Mall. There you were within 
a stone's throw or a short cab-fare of the clubs, 
the dining places, and the theatres. For twenty 
years I had vcvy pied a terre in Bury Street. The 
man who took me in and did for me was a typi- 
cal representative of a class. Retired butlers or 
saving footmen united themselves in wedlock with 
housekeepers or ladies' maids, and went in for 
keeping lodgings. When frugal and intelligent, 
they generally did well : many of them, as indeed 
is often the case now, had a good country connec- 
tion, like Mrs. Ridley who entertained the Rev. 
Charles Honeyman and was victimised by Fred 
Bayham. My friendly host had been a courier, 
and had made a wide circle of acquaintance in 
the course of innumerable foreign tours. He was 
a man of substance, used frequently to consult me 
about his small investments, and though I never 



54 DAYS OF THE PAST 

tried it, as I happen to know, he could afford to 
give long credit when he could reckon on the 
essential solvency of his lodger. Everything was 
managed on a liberal scale, and as the friend who 
recommended me to the place remarked, you 
might change your boots four times in the day 
and never hear a grumble. The courier's wife 
had been a lady's maid, but had she been a cordon 
bleu the kitchen could not have been better con- 
ducted. He did not profess to get up dinners, 
though when he could be persuaded the guests 
had no cause of complaint. As for the breakfasts, 
it would have been difficult to beat them, and I 
believe the special dishes were the work of his 
own hands. For an inveterate continental rover 
like myself, he had a special kindness ; and when 
he brought in the tray with the morning's Times, I 
always looked out for an awakening of associations. 
A plat of macaroni transported you to Naples, and 
Fortnum and Mason round the corner were laid 
under contribution to carry you to Rhineland, to 
Pithiviers or the Gironde. The consequence was 
that his rooms were run upon. I always paid a 
retaining fee for my own, a modest but spacious 
apartment au troisieme, with a curtain screening 
off the bed and the bath. There when I made 
up my traps for a foreign tour, I left the rest of 
my worldly belongings for Brown — as I may call 
him — to pack ; and he used to buy endless second- 
hand portmanteaus for their stowage. He struck 



IN LONDON LODGINGS 55 

at last and amicably told me I must make a clear- 
ance, and indeed it was high time. He called up 
one of these peripatetic merchants in old clothes, 
who used to go prowling along Bury Street, shout- 
ing down the area railings, and I left them busied 
over the bargaining, for which he would insist on 
honourably accounting. 

One day, dining in Edinburgh with an old 
acquaintance, I met his elder brother, who had 
come home from India with a fortune. He asked 
me about London lodgings. I saw how he 
appreciated the oyster soup and the crimped 
salmon, and recommended him to try Brown's. He 
came, he saw, he took the second floor, and there 
he remained for a dozen of years, dying in the 
grim four-poster in the back bedroom. Lodgings 
in Bury Street are not a lively place to die in, 
listening to the chimes of the clock of St. James's, 
Piccadilly, and bethinking yourself when the bell 
will toll for your own departure. But the lonely 
invalid's passage was made as smooth as might 
be, by the affectionate attentions of the courier 
and his helpmate. The first floor for four-fifths 
of the year was the residence of a young aristocrat 
who had done a good deal of aesthetic decoration 
there on his own account. That is to say, it was his 
residence when at home, for he was perpetually 
absent on rounds of visits. And in the season he 
invariably migrated to more fashionable quarters 
in Half-Moon Street, for Piccadilly then drew a 



56 DAYS OF THE PAST 

sharp dividing line between fashion and affluent 

or respectable Bohemianism. The day came when 

poor Brown died himself; and the announcement 

of the news gave me a sad shock, when I drove 

up one morning from the Tower Wharf where the 

Baron Osy from Antwerp had landed me. The 

widow flitted ; the house was sold ; and so I lost 

the only home I have ever known in London. In 

after years I went from sentimental motives to 

take a bed there, and thought myself happy in 

securing the familiar bedroom. The house had 

been burnished up externally ; a brisk butler 

opened the door with the bright brass plate, and 

a flaunting maid brought a tarnished flat candle 

and a jug of tepid water, when I came in to dress 

for dinner. Now I was only a night casual and 

No. 9, and I had every opportunity for meditating 

on the changes through the night watches. Never 

even in Sicily or Syria have I been worse worried 

by families of bugs of all ages and sizes. The 

sheets and chintz curtains were splashed with gore. 

When getting into a pair of badly blackened 

boots, I recalled the mirror-like polish by which 

you might have shaved, and took a last farewell of 

the desecrated lodgings. 

Everywhere about the capitalist or the specula- 
tive builder has been busy. There are piles of resi- 
dential chambers in Duke Street and Bury Street, 
and the old directory maker would be as much abroad 
as the old fldnettr, if he took a stroll up Piccadilly. 



IN LONDON LODGINGS 57 

There were no clubs to the west of St. James's 
Street, till the Junior AthenEcum was started at 
the corner of Down Street and Piccadilly. In 
comparatively recent years, the Berkeley, among 
the first of the sumptuous new restaurants, with its 
set dinners and recherche luncheons, was reared 
on the site of the White Horse Cellar. Lady 
Palmerston was still receiving the dlite of the 
Whig party, and recruiting for it in receptions at 
Cambridge House, which has since become a 
succursale of the Junior and the Rag. Apsley 
House — I can remember the iron shutters, the epi- 
grammatic retort of the Duke to the violence of an 
oblivious rabble — had not been overtopped by the 
golden palace of the Rothschilds. Hamilton Place 
was a quiet cul-de-sac, only disturbed by the echoes 
of the congested traffic between St. George's 
Hospital and the narrows leading to Park Lane. 
The houses in the Lane itself, though suggestive 
of luxury and affluence, so as to point the diatribes 
of the demagogues who smashed the railings of 
the Park, were comparatively unpretentious. The 
landowners were still the aristocracy of wealth, 
for it was before the multi-millionaires had struck 
oil in America, or exploited the gold treasures 
of Australia and the Transvaal. 

Since then the ornamental gardener has done 
much to beautify the Park with flower beds, 
blazing with tulips, geraniums, and pelargoniums. 
But I liked it better when it was less carefully 



58 DAYS OF THE PAST 

tended, for comparative neglect reminded one of 
the simplicity of the country. And since then 
many a stately tree has come down, both there 
and in Kensington Gardens, and quaint summer- 
houses, where sentimental lovers had assignations 
for summer evenings, have disappeared. The gates 
were guarded against public conveyances, and so far 
the democracy had a genuine grievance. On the 
other hand there was no church parade, and they 
missed the opportunity of staring at celebrities, 
with whose looks and domestic habits the illus- 
trated and society journals have since made them 
familiar. When I first knew the Park, few people 
turned out to ride of a fine morning, except for 
fresh air and exercise. Then the before-breakfast 
ride became the fashion ; and a very good thing it 
was, for it got the young folk out of bed, after 
late dances and midnight suppers. It freshened 
their complexions through the season, and kept 
them going till they changed the scene to the 
country or the continental baths. 

But my brightest recollections of the Park of 
those days are of an exceptionally severe winter. 
The frost was as intense, if not so enduring, as 
when the Thames was hard-frozen from bank to 
bank. I had just come south from Scotland in 
time to change curling stones for skates, and 
seldom have I gone in for such prolonged exertion, 
as was only possible in the exhilarating cold. 
After skating all the day on the Serpentine, with 



IN LONDON LODGINGS 59 

perhaps an occasional suburban excursion to the 
Welsh Harp, or the ponds at the Crystal Palace, 
you came back with ravenous appetite for a hasty 
dinner at the club, with a pint of champagne or a 
flask of burgundy. Then shaking off somnolence, 
like a giant refreshed, you were whirled in a 
hansom behind a slipping horse to the passage 
hard by the Knightsbridge Barracks. The Park 
was lighted with a lurid glare, the reflection 
of hundreds of smoking torches. For several 
days the ice was in perfect condition, for the 
orange peel and the debris of other comestibles 
were regularly swept away by gangs of frozen- out 
sweepers. It was a saturnalia where all sorts and 
conditions were mingled ; from the ragged vaga- 
bond who screwed on your skates, to the beggar 
who appealed to your charity when you sought 
temporary rest on a chair. You could even afford 
to be in charity with the pickpockets who hustled 
you, for as at the prize fight you had wisely left 
your valuables at home, and if they found any 
small change by searching your pockets, you made 
them heartily welcome to it. 

To go back to the pleasant summer mornings, 
we used often to prolong the ride from Rotten 
Row to Lords'. Then the arrangements were as 
primitive as when the fielders turned out in tight 
raiment and top-hats, and batters and wicket- 
keepers took no special precautions against the 
steady underhand bowling. You rode in, took 



6o DAYS OF THE PAST 

your seat on a backless bench, and held your 
own horse who stood quietly grazing behind you. 
St. John's Wood was still a suburban solitude, of 
doubtful reputation, but with Cytherean retreats 
where apocryphal respectability often led a double 
existence. I remember one forenoon pulling up 
face to face with an elderly acquaintance, coming 
out of one of those eligible cottage residences. 
He was a doctor in fashionable practice who might 
have been visiting a patient anywhere, and had 
it not been for his blushing and embarrassment, 
I should never have dreamed of suspecting evil. 
As it was, he gave himself so thoroughly away, 
that I believe I could have blackmailed him to 
any extent. 

Eastward from the Union Club the changes 
have been so great that I have wellnigh forgotten 
how things used to be. One of my boyish recol- 
lections is of Farrance's on the south side, famous 
for ices and pastry, and for the fascinating young 
women behind the counters. There was but one 
narrow thoroughfare southward — the crossing- 
sweeper found it almost as lucrative as that before 
the Bank — where now are the multiplicity of 
spacious crossways on the slope, as perilous to 
pedestrians as the Place de la Republique, with 
the incapable Paris coachmen. Northumberland 
House, the last of the great historic mansions of 
the Strand, had not yet been sold for a million, 
more or less ; and the Percy lion on the roof, 



IN LONDON LODGINGS 6i 

with rampant tail, always attracted little groups 
of country gazers. Nothing could be quieter or 
duller than the side streets, ending on the mud- 
banks of the tidal river, as they were then. They 
were chiefly populated by lodging-house keepers 
like Mrs. Lirriper, by rather shady private hotels, by 
struggling solicitors with a sprinkling of usurers, and 
by cook-shops. It was an innovation when George 
Smith started the Pall Mall Gazette, a West End 
journal, 'written by gentlemen for gentlemen,' 
bringing life and briskness into Northumberland 
Street, which nevertheless was still a cul-de-sac. 
Since the brothers Adam built the Adelphi, which 
proved a financial failure, the builder and educated 
architect had found little to do in that quarter. 
Even the Government Offices were disgraceful 
survivals. I remember often groping my way 
about the old War Office, as much a warren of 
winding passages and darksome rooms as the 
venerable Savoy before it was pulled down. 
Naturally such a dilapidated rookery was a nest 
of abuses, and if youths of fashion might grumble 
at uncomfortable quarters, they consoled them- 
selves by being seldom looked up and having 
next to nothing to do. And I fancy things must 
have been managed in a singularly free and easy 
fashion. Once I had come to town for a con- 
tinental tour with a captain in a light cavalry 
regiment. He had some interest and a good 
record, and counted so confidently on getting a 



62 DAYS OF THE PAST 

month or six weeks' leave that all our plans were 
settled. The answer to his written application 
was a curt refusal. Intensely disgusted, he did 
not despair. He went next day to interview an 
underling, who told him it should be all right, and 
he would come to dine with us and report. So he 
did and so it was, and we had a jovial evening at 
the Rag. 

Hard by was another decrepit survival of the 
past, Hungerford Market, a wooden construction 
of low bulging buildings, with galleries and over- 
hanging eaves. It was fragrant with the smell of 
stale shellfish and the odours from the booths and 
stalls of small tradesmen. It was there that David 
Copperfield or young Charles Dickens served his 
apprenticeship to the blacking warehouse. But it 
was a bustling place all the same, for there was 
constant coming and going to the floating pier 
and the penny river boats. Moreover, turning 
to the stairs on the right, for another penny or 
a halfpenny, you could cross the river by the 
slender suspension bridge which now spans the 
Avon opposite Clifton Hot Wells. 

Hungerford Market was disreputable, though 
not unpicturesque in its decay, yet evidently 
doomed. But Leicester Square was simply a 
scandal ; and it was a marvel how that dreary 
abomination of desolation could be left in the 
midst of the wealthiest city in the world. There 
was a headless statue in a wilderness of weeds, 



IN LONDON LODGINGS 63 

and the silence of the night was disturbed by the 
caterwauling of starving cats on the rampage. 
From time to time the jungle had been cleared 
for dioramas and exhibitions of various kinds, but 
they invariably came to grief, for the place seemed 
accursed. And the morals of the vicinity left every- 
thing to desire, for it was a modern sanctuary — a 
preserve for political and criminal refugees from 
continental justice, always shadowed by agents of 
the secret police and the objects of urgent demands 
for extradition. In comparison the female society 
of the Haymarket was pure and refined. I have 
said something of the company you saw in the 
restaurants. Berthollini's had a great renown in its 
time among English Bohemians ; it was celebrated 
in verse by Albert Smith in his * Pottle of Straw- 
berries ' ; and as you wandered away into the back 
streets towards Soho and Clerkenwell, the eating- 
houses shaded down from the cheap and mean to 
the villainous. 

Then a great reformer and philanthropist came 
to the rescue. Albert Grant had cast his Jewish 
gabardine and adopted a Christian name ; he had 
begged or bought a German title ; and by his rare 
skill in promoting and company running had laid 
the shaky foundations of a colossal fortune. But 
his credit had been blown upon, as he protested, by 
calumny, and in the art of self-advertising he was 
far in advance of the age. It occurred to him as a 
happy stroke of business to present a renovated 



64 DAYS OF THE PAST 

Leicester Square to London. The Metropolitan 
Board of Works rose readily to the offer ; the 
scheme was carried out regardless of cost, and a day 
was fixed for the opening ceremony. I happened 
to be dining with Mr. Delane of the Times, when 
he asked me to go and report the proceedings. 
I went accordingly, and a queer scene it was, both 
to see at the time and to look back upon after 
the collapse of the Machiavelli of finance. The 
Baron, sleek, smiling, and sandy-haired, ruddy of 
complexion like David, and swelling with satisfied 
pride and self-importance, stood forward on the 
platform. A capital speech he made, for he was a 
born orator, and he showed when he fought his 
own case in the courts, and was highly compli- 
mented by the judge, that had he turned his 
attention to the law, he might have aspired to seat 
himself on the Woolsack. The most characteristi- 
cally suggestive point was his remarking casually 
that he had brought his boys up from Eton to assist 
at a scene they would long remember. As perhaps 
they might, though with mingled feelings. For 
the public benefactor had his bitter enemies, and 
all about, outside the garden railings, newsboys 
were shouting over satirical broadsheets, illustrated 
with grave-slabs and headstones, commemorative 
of the Baron's fatal fiascoes which had ruined con- 
fiding investors by the thousands. Anyhow, 
whatever the donor's motive, the gift has done 
a world of good to the neighbourhood, giving 



IN LONDON LODGINGS 65 

a recreation ground to the feeble and sickly, and 
a play garden to the children of the slums. More 
than that, the enterprising promoter gave a start 
to speculations by which he was not to benefit. 
The square associated with Newton and Reynolds, 
with Dr. Burney and the mysterious authorship of 
Evelina, is now a centre of the theatrical world, 
and adorned by music halls of Moorish architec- 
ture, paying dividends from twenty to thirty per 
cent. 

I might be tempted to ramble on to the top of 
the Haymarket, and to Shaftesbury Avenue, where 
the transformations have been more striking than 
anywhere else, but I may as well travel eastwards, 
and sample the city. Forty or fifty years ago, few 
self-respecting men dreamed of taking an omnibus 
— omnibuses were slow, they were filthy, they 
were not cheap, for sixpence was the fare from 
Pall Mall to St. Paul's — and the eternal stoppages, 
with the squaring of complacent policemen, were 
standing subjects of satire in Punch. The crawling 
four-wheeler was an intolerable trial of the patience, 
and was chiefly relegated to old parties with 
heavy boxes, or to the sight-seeing country cousins 
who were ruthlessly and remorselessly victimised. 
Hansoms were less common then than now, and 
you gained little by taking them, for they were 
always being caught up in crushes, and could 
seldom put on the pace. If you safely shot the 
cross currents at Charing Cross, there was always 



E 



66 DAYS OF THE PAST 

a long block at Temple Bar, and indefinite delays 
at the bottom of Ludgate Hill. Then you had 
to negotiate crowded Cheapside, for there was no 
broad thoroughfare throug-h Cannon Street. Con- 
sequently when the weather was fine, and I seldom 
went cityward except under favourable weather 
circumstances, I generally took the penny boat 
at Hungerford. 

There was no place I visited more habitually 
than the old East India House in Leadenhall 
Street : to my fancy it was always enveloped with 
a gorgeous halo of oriental romance. The reason 
of my going and of my free admission was that a 
bosom friend was a confidential clerk and private 
secretary to his father, a director with sundry 
stars to his name in the catalogue of stockholders, 
and repeatedly chairman in critical circumstances. 
It was that gentleman who was at the helm when 
Lord Ellenborough was recalled. A keen sports- 
man, he used to take me out snipe-shooting as 
a boy. He had the oddest trick of throwing his 
hand to his hat, before raising his gun ; but when 
he did bring the gun to his shoulder he seldom 
missed, for he had served an apprenticeship in 
the rice swamps of Bengal. I well remember his 
telling his brother, when sitting down to luncheon 
on the skirts of an Aberdeenshire bog— his brother, 
also a stockholder, was advising caution — that his 
mind was made up, that the viceroy must come 
back, and that he was ready to carry the war into 



IN LONDON LODGINGS 67 

the enemy's camp. He spoke as if he had the 
directorate in his pocket, and I verily believe he 
had, for he was a man of no ordinary sagacity, and 
of indomitable will. 

He and that brother of his were typical men. 
In the palmy days of the Company, it was not 
only on shore that fortunes were to be made by 
civilians shaking the pagoda tree. Both had been 
in the Company's naval service. One married 
early and retired in comfortable circumstances ; 
the other held on a few years longer and retired 
comparatively rich. Then the Lady Melville or 
the Lord Clive was a cross between a castle and a 
floating warehouse, with its Dutch-built poop, its 
quarter galleries and its capacious holds. On the 
homeward voyage the holds were always richly 
freighted : there were bars of bullion, there were 
bales of silks and cases of indigo, and sealed pack- 
ages of diamonds were locked away in the captain's 
cabin. The captain had his commission on the 
value of the cargo, and with his officers, according 
to their degree, was privileged to ship a certain 
quantity of goods. His venture was compact and 
precious ; and through friends in India to whom he 
could do many a good turn, he had always means 
of investing his savings to the best advantage. 
Many a quaint souvenir of their voyages they had 
brought home. There were roots fantastically 
fashioned with slight touches, into beasts, birds, 
and fishes ; idols in ivory, silken hangings, and 



68 DAYS OF THE PAST 

emblazoned scrolls ; with carvings in jade, picked 
up for a song in the bazaars of Shanghai or Canton, 
which would fetch a great price nowadays. 

So it may be imagined what wealth of treasure 
was stored in the India House. It was a museum, 
besides, of trophies won in memorable battles and 
sea-fights, and of the offerings which humbled 
potentates had brought to the feet of the merchant 
adventurers. There were costumes of state, and 
antiquated suits of chain armour ; an arsenal of 
semi-barbarous weapons from gingals, matchlocks 
and stinkpots to sabres, swords and daggers of the 
finest tempered steel, with sheaths inlaid with 
Canarese gold work, and hilts, made for small, 
nervous hands, rich with uncut gems. There was 
always a scent, or one fancied there was, of sandal- 
wood and oriental spices, which lent a halo of 
romance to the drudgery going forward, conducted 
with as business-like methods as at Lloyd's or the 
Bank of England. Yet you were brought back to 
the present when you crossed in the passages boys 
bearing trays which were not laden with oriental 
sweets, but with chops from the pot-house round 
the corner, flanked with pewters of bitter or stout. 
The most imposing man on the premises was the 
gold-laced giant who mounted guard at the portal. 
As my visits were frequent when in town, I thought 
it well to tip him ; but I can never forget the 
hesitation with which I tendered the douceur, or my 
relief when he smilingly condescended to accept it. 



IN LONDON LODGINGS 69 

That porter must have been pensioned when the 
rule of the Company was transferred to the Crown. 
But in after years my connection with the East 
was renewed when I made acquaintance with 
sundry directors of the Peninsular and Oriental. 
Leadenhall Street was still the centre of East 
Indian trade, and notably of the passenger traffic. 
But already its practical monopoly was being 
threatened by engineering science and keen com- 
petition. When I went out to the opening of the 
Suez Canal on the Delta with other guests of the 
Khedive, it was already reconstructing its fleet 
and reconsidering- its arrangfements. The old 
Delta was one of the last of the paddle steamers, 
and a comfortable and roomy craft she was. We 
had a placid passage from Marseilles to Alexandria, 
and not a soul failed to turn up at every meal. I 
may remark, parenthetically, that the idea was to 
leave her at Alexandria, as it was doubted whether 
she did not draw too much water for the new 
canal ; but afterwards the directors decided that 
they ought to show their flag in the Red Sea, and 
they dared the passage successfully. Meantime, 
after a kindly offer of a shake-down on the deck of 
his crowded steam yacht from Sir John Pender, 
associated with regenerating Egypt by electrical 
enterprise, I transhipped myself to the Newport, 
the Government surveying ship, where they turned 
out a beer cask to make room for a bed in the 
saloon. The Newport, commanded by my connec- 



70 DAYS OF THE PAST 

tion, Captain Nares — the Sir George of the Arctic 
Expedition — was overcrowded with captains and 
flag officers of the Mediterranean fleet. Many of 
them have since been admirals, and more than one 
found a watery grave with Tryon, who, I think, 
was one of our company. 

Ships of the Delta class were built for the com- 
fort of passengers ; freight was by no means a 
secondary consideration, but then it was of great 
value in small bulk. Silks and spices could be 
compactly stowed away. In the newer vessels, 
cargoes of cotton were consigned to capacious 
holds, and the Suez Canal would never have paid 
had it not been for the simultaneous introduction 
of the compound engine. At the same time, more 
severe competition lowered the passage money, 
and stricter economy became the word of com- 
mand. In the palmy days the Company charged 
pretty much what they pleased, and in all the 
commissariat arrangements there was a princely 
disregard of detail. At the many meals, sherry and 
claret were served ad libitum ; you might douche 
yourself with brandy and soda or Bass as you 
lounged in the camp chair under the awnings on 
deck. Now the fares are cut down ; the second- 
class accommodation is infinitely improved ; and 
though you may call for what liquor you like, you 
have to pay for it. These changes may be all for 
the better, but one loved the old sense of luxurious 
pleasure yachting. What is more questionable 



IN LONDON LODGINGS 71 

is the substitution of Lascars for Europeans in 
the crews, though I remember Morris, one of the 
oldest captains in the service, warmly advocating it, 
when he showed me over what he considered his 
model steamer at Alexandria. But Morris was an 
enthusiast. Often after that Egyptian trip, I en- 
joyed the hospitality of the Board in their head- 
quarters in Leadenhall Street at luncheon time ; 
and a privilege it was to lunch in such intellectual 
company, with a rare variety of oriental experi- 
ences. But at these simple luncheons frugality 
reigned, and the Board of that wealthy and pro- 
sperous Company, all men of affluence or ample 
means, set their subordinates a laudable example 
of economy. 



CHAPTER V 

THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES 

It is a natural transition from London hotels to 
the Thames. What pleasant times we used to 
have up the river, when the house-boat was a 
rarity and when the swans were never scared by 
the steam launch. The swan hopper's barge, slow 
and stately, with its gorgeous display and its 
associations with the venerable city guilds and 
immemorial custom, was a different thing alto- 
gether and suited to the suburban river scenery 
as the Bucentaur to Venetian canals. Among my 
brightest recollections is that of a July and August 
spent cruising between old Windsor and Kingston. 
It was a singularly dry summer, intensely hot, and 
we lived in flannels. There was no fear of the rain 
upsetting the daily arrangements. We were four : 
two to pull, one to steer, and the supernumerary to 
go along the bank at a dog-trot, with a terrier and 
a gaunt mongrel, who had attached himself to the 
party and fattened on good living. Our quarters 
were at the nautically named Ship of Lower 
Halliford, and if the accommodation was some- 
what cramped, we could not have been more 
comfortable. The day began with a dip in the 

72 



THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES 73 

river, when one of the Rosewells, a family of 
Halliford boatmen, who punted us to the bathing 
place, took the opportunity of examining his eel 
pots, and the results were not without a personal 
interest for us. Breakfast in the little parlour, 
with the window wide open over the riverside 
road, was not the least enjoyable hour of the day. 
There was a pretty clean sweep of the well-spread 
table, and especially the crusts of home-baked 
loaves disappeared, the crumb being left to make 
into toast, which never was made, or was given 
away in generous charity. After breakfast, and 
over pipes, Mr. Stone, our worthy host, was called 
into consultation as to the more solemn business 
of dinner. The fish cart used always to come up 
punctually, at a canter, when we made our own 
selections, ranging from salmon to smelts. That 
weighty matter off our minds, the long summer 
day was devoted to relaxation. When we were 
equally divided as to going up or down, the 
question was settled by the spin of a shilling. 
Really, it mattered little, though perhaps it was 
more satisfactory to begin with the pull against the 
stream, drifting downwards with the current as the 
shadows were declining. Either way, you could 
not go wrong. The Thames has a placid beauty of 
its own, and everywhere the banks, even when 
from the boat you lost sight of the beauties, were 
brightened by associations. Upwards there was 
Shepperton, at an inconvenient distance and too 



74 DAYS OF THE PAST 

near to Halliford, for Mrs. Steer who kept the 
inn was famous for her cookery. It used to be 
a favourite resort of Albert Smith, who had a 
cottage at Chertsey ; and in the garden we made 
acquaintance with the great showman's mother. 
The old lady had rather gone off her head, but the 
worthy landlady made her welcome for the sake of 
old times. In unconventional costume, we used 
regularly to attend morning service of a Sunday in 
the picturesque old church, and seldom have I 
profited more than by the ministrations of the 
excellent parson. It was luxurious to listen to the 
songs of praise and words of power, to see the 
glorious sunshine filtering through the panes of 
stained glass, and to know that in the afternoon 
you would be worshipping in the sunshine of 
the open. 

In those days Mr. Lindsay, a great shipowner, 
who was an authority in the House of Commons 
on seafaring and commercial subjects, had a charm- 
ing maritime residence there, and the borders that 
fringed his lawns were blazing with geraniums and 
fuchsias. He used to have Cabinet ministers down 
with him for the ' weeks' ends,' which had not then 
come into general observance, and more than once 
we were indiscreet enough to pull ' easy all ' when 
we recognised Mr. Gladstone, then Chancellor 
of the Exchequer, in confidential talk with him. 
Chertsey and the neighbourhood were associated 
with the burglarious expedition of Bill Sikes and 



THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES 75 

flash Toby Crackit, and Laleham, the suburban 
seat of Lord Lucan, with memories of Dr. Arnold 
and Tom Brown s School Days ; for at Lale- 
ham we were naturally reminded of Rugby, and 
one of the quartette was an old intimate of Tom 
Hughes. In after years I knew ' Tom Brown ' toler- 
ably well, and had many a pleasant chat with him in 
the subterraneous smoking-room of the Athenseum. 
Also at Margate, where he swore by the invigorat- 
ing air, and whither I often took my walks, by way 
of Broadstairs and Kingsgate from Ramsgate. And 
there were few men I loved more than his brother 
George, with whom I golfed and forgathered, 
season after season, at Pau, and with whom, and 
our common friend, Ferdinand St. John, we have 
whipped the water, rather than caught trout, in 
many a tempting emerald-coloured stream of the 
Pyrenees. But the evening chat — we never retired 
early — more than atoned for the disappointments 
of the day. St. John had been everywhere, knew 
everybody, was at home in all useful European 
languages, and had brilliant talents which should 
have raised him to high distinction, had he not, 
to his subsequent regret, perversely wrapped 
them up in a napkin. As racontetir and causeur, he 
scarcely yielded to Charles Lever, who suggested 
that he should give his autobiography to the world 
under the title of ' Devious Ways and Loose Re- 
collections.' George Hughes was more reserved, 
but he brimmed over with appreciative humour. 



76 DAYS OF THE PAST 

and had a happy turn for amateur theatricals and 
charades. He never hinted at it, but I have reason 
to beHeve that he collaborated with his brother 
in the Rugby book which has made Thomas an 
English classic. 

Lord Lucan was the lord of the manor where 
we used to lie, after luncheon, and smoke under 
the trees. As it chanced, when it was my habit 
to lunch at the Carlton, as an early bird — indulging 
in something like a French ddjeuner — I always 
secured the corner table at a window on Pall Mall, 
and his lordship invariably occupied the next one. 
The gallant old field marshal, the hero of the Heavy 
Cavalry Charge, cared little about Arnold, but had 
a love for his family seat and the scene of the 
doctor's early labours. He was a delightful and 
informing acquaintance, but it was difficult to draw 
him on the subject of the Crimean campaign, 
though he discussed cuisine and other subjects with 
knowledgeable zest. But though instructive, he 
was the most embarrassing of neighbours. Pain- 
fully deaf, he spoke in stentorian tones, and ex- 
pected any modest man he was conversing with to 
respond in similar key. Once I happened to be 
relating a dramatic incident of saving a kitten from 
a bull-dog at Laleham, when our terrier and mongrel 
had cut into the fight. That day the dining-room 
was extraordinarily crowded, as a great debate was 
coming on, and it was one of the rare occasions 
when Lord Beaconsfield had condescended to drop 



THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES ^^ 

in with Mr. Montague Corrie for lunch. As I 
began to retell the tale in a louder voice, there 
chanced to be a lull, so I had more of an audience 
than I desired or expected. 

But this is one of my innumerable digressions. 
At Chertsey we would diverge from the river to 
the Cricketers ; at Staines we used to pull up at 
the Packhorse ; its name suggestive of traffic in the 
olden time, when the Berkshire roads were sloughs 
and the lanes were flooded. It was a quaint and 
modest hostelry, in high repute for its ale and 
mutton chops. Experts in ale — and we were all 
of us familiar with the Trinity Audit — used to swear 
by the beer at the Bells of Ouseley. To me it 
always seemed a trifle hard, suggesting the cider 
they used to serve from the cask in earthenware 
jugs at the Brittany tables d'hote. I may have been 
mistaken, for no haunts on the river were more 
frequented by connoisseurs of all classes than the 
taproom and parlours of that somewhat sequestered 
inn. Bargemen and swell boating men gathered 
on the benches before the door, and it was largely 
patronised by gipsies from caravans on the adjacent 
commons, and by the passing tramp. I recollect 
one free fight in which we interposed at great per- 
sonal risk, when two Romany ladies took to pulling 
bonnets, and their swarthy mates, who at first looked 
indifferently on, began to show an interest in the 
affair which threatened serious hostilities. But 
considering that the rural constabulary were con- 



78 DAYS OF THE PAST 

spicuous by their absence, and that rough chaff was 
constantly flying about, it was wonderful how little 
trouble there was on the river. The temper of the 
bargees had not been soured by steam-launches 
interfering with their steering, or house-boats 
getting foul of the towing-ropes. Alongside of 
the fragile outrigger in the locks they always made 
themselves pleasant — in the expectation of the price 
of a pint — though still morbidly sensitive to the 
time-honoured query of, 'Who ate the puppy-pie 
under Marlow Bridge ? ' 

Maidenhead and Marlow were the objects of 
more distant excursions, with the Red Lion at 
Henley as a goal, where we sometimes passed a 
couple of nights. There was no greater contrast 
than that between the Henley of the Regatta and 
the Henley of other weeks of the year. The 
drowsy little town was nodding, if not asleep. No 
longer were the echoes awoke by the horns of the 
coach guards, or by the shouts down the stable 
yards for 'first and second pairs out.' But you 
seldom failed in a fine season to find company at 
the Lion, of the best sort and inclined to be sociable. 
Skindle's at Maidenhead, with its verdant lawn 
and beds of geraniums, was a delightful place to 
lounge away an afternoon, till the lotus-eating torpor 
grew on you, and you were loath to slip the painter. 
There was no club hard by and no noisy racket, 
though of a Sunday it was rather a place to be 
shunned, for hard-worked men of letters from the 



THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES 79 

borders of Bohemia were apt to hold high festival 
there with their ladies. 

There is many a picturesque mansion on the 
river banks, but perhaps none is more attractive 
than Bisham. We had the fortune to find hospi- 
table welcome there — one of us was heir-presump- 
tive to the Abbey and estates — and the hospitality 
was free and easy as any boating man, whose 
ordinary wear was loose flannels, could desire. 
On the great oaken table in the ancient hall were 
the massive tankards of home-brewed ale, which 
rather stimulated thirst, while professing to quench 
it. There were no rules as to strictly correct cos- 
tume for dinner, always served punctually to the 
hour, when the guests walked in to take their 
seats, though the master might be late, as was 
very often the case. The venerable mansion was 
associated with the two great baronial families who 
had transmitted their names and manors to ' the 
last of the barons,' There was of course a ghost, 
dating from Elizabethan days, for one of the 
Hobdays walked, and though I forget the details, 
I do remember that there was some odd association 
with child murder and a blotted copy-book. The 
lady never disturbed my slumbers, and when we 
rose it was to take a header into the Thames from 
a bathing-house shrouded in luxuriant shrubbery. 
From the square, grey tower — there was a tradi- 
tion that a cat had been tossed from the battle- 
ments to alight safely on its feet on the gravel 



8o DAYS OF THE PAST 

walk — there was an enchanting view over hill, 
dale, and valley, and the long sweep under the 
sheltering ridge of the amphitheatre of beech- 
woods. There Shelley had boated through many 
a summer's day, meditating sonnets to the sky- 
larks, as they soared skyward, or dreaming over 
The Revolt of Islam, which he composed in great 
part while, dropping his sculls off Bisham, he left 
the boat to drift. The exile, on one of his returns 
to England, had his home at Marlow, across the 
river, and the proscription of the atheist and 
socialist was so general, that his only friend and 
acquaintance was Love Peacock, whom he had 
tempted to Marlow — a poet like himself and the 
author of those inspired snatches of song in The 
Misforttmes of Elphin and Maid Marian. Lapped 
in the folds of the beechen amphitheatre, on its 
sloping lawn, stood the vicarage, where Peacock's 
Dr. Opimian might have been content to settle 
down, renouncing dreams of deaneries and 
bishoprics. If the parson were foolish enough to 
change the scene in summer, he could always let 
that ideal Paradise for a fabulous rent — from thirty 
to forty guineas a week. As for the old-fashioned 
Dutch garden of the Abbey, scarcely above the 
river level, with its encircling moat flooded in 
any overflow, with the old-fashioned hollyhocks, 
dahlias, and sunflowers, it was a blaze of brilliant 
colour. Nowhere have I seen brighter or fresher 
tints on the gladiolas, save at Inverewe in Western 



THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES 8i 

Ross-shire, where the terraces were watered by 
balmy rains tempered by the genial flow of the 
Gulf Stream. 

Scarcely less attractive was the downward pull 
from Halliford to Kingston, the county town of 
Surrey. Again you were among the suburban 
haunts of more or less illustrious men, who had 
their summer residences near to town before the 
days of the railway. Love Peacock and Leigh 
Hunt had lived at Halliford : on a garden terrace 
just below the village used to sit wrapt in her 
book a girl in a scarlet jacket, who was pointed 
out as Hunt's granddaughter. One of the homes 
of Harold Skimpole, where, like the poet of the 
Seasons, he may have nibbled, with hands behind 
his back, at the sunny sides of the peaches, 
must have been still in the family. At Walton, 
with its long, low bridge of many arches, stretching 
over marshy strips of meadowland, periodically 
submerged — a scene often transferred to the walls 
of the Academy — Mr. Sturgis, a partner in 
Baring's, then in the full flush of high credit and 
cautious prosperity, kept open house for Trans- 
atlantic guests, who hunted up the history and 
romance of the old country from Windsor Forest 
to Hampton Court. Then there was Sunbury, 
reminding one of Gilbert White's notes upon 
swallows and their hybernation — the birds were 
always flashing by the boat and twittering over the 
reed beds, while the great black swifts flew scream- 

F 



82 DAYS OF THE PAST 

ing round the church tower — and of Barham of 
the Ingoldsby Legends, who had often rowed there 
before us. There was Thames Ditton, where we 
would land to lunch at the Swan, associated with 
Scott's correspondence with Lord Montague, and 
with Theodore Hook, who was fond of going punt 
fishing there, with sufficient ground-bait for him- 
self on board, and superfluity of claret and cold 
punch. There was Moulsey Hurst, of renown in 
the palmy days of the prize-ring, when chariots 
and four, bedecked with the colours of Cribb or 
Molyneux — Captain Barclay or Berkeley Craven 
seated beside the bruisers they had trained or 
backed — brought the swells of St. James's to the 
scene of old English 'sport,' which, when not 
interrupted by the presence of some officious 
magistrate, often ended in a fight more free than 
was contemplated. I was versed in the vivid 
descriptions of those days by the amusing Memoirs 
of Archibald Constable the publisher, when his 
partner Hunter, who had the quarrel with Scott, 
drove down with ' Maule,' afterwards Lord Pan- 
mure, and ' the Bailie,' which was the sobriquet 
of Hunter's sire. But forty years ago the glories 
of the ring were gone — as Borrow remarks in 
Lavengro, rottenness had crept into the heart of 
it — the once popular Bell's Life was on the 
decline, and the office of the umpire was even 
more perilous than it had always been, now that 
' crosses ' were common, and the whips that strove 



THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES 83 

to keep the ring could hardly hold boisterous 
roughs in order. Yet it still published columns 
of challenges, intimating houses where money was 
to be put down at a series of convivial meetings, 
and where the office was to be obtained by the 
initiated on the eve of the battle. Ben Caunt was 
at home at the Coach and Horses ; Jem Burn, 
who was in the way of dropping into poetry like 
Silas Wegg, had 'lush to cool you, when your 
coppers were hot,' at the Rising Sun ; and Nat 
Langham, champion of the middle weights, was 
giving lessons to the nobility and gentry in the 
noble art of self-defence. But the police were 
ever on the trail of those half-tolerated law- 
breakers ; the forlorn gentlemen of the fancy 
were forced to find their way at unholy hours to 
the fogs of the Essex marshes, when the con- 
sumption of fiery liquors before the ordinary 
breakfast hour was portentous. However dark 
the impending affair might have been kept, those 
outings of East-end roughs often ended in a fiasco, 
and treachery hedged unsatisfactory bets by play- 
ing into the hands of the common enemy. To my 
shame, be it said, I once made one of such a party, 
when the fight was a cross, and the expedition 
in every sense ' a sell.' I had been wise enough 
to leave watch and gold at home, but my loose 
silver had escaped through a cut in the trouser 
pocket, and I lost a breast pin which would not 
have fetched a shilling when it was pawned. 



84 DAYS OF THE PAST 

Moulsey Hurst, by the way, has other memories. 
It was almost as old a golfing ground as Black- 
heath, if it had no Royal Club and was not so 
generally frequented, being less accessible from 
the city. When Garrick had his villa at Hampton, 
Jupiter Carlyle, with John Home, the author of 
Douzlas and confidential man-of-all-work to the 
omnipotent Lord Bute, drove down with a party 
of Scots to spend a day with the great actor. 
They met the rector, Mr. Black, who owed his 
benefice to having initiated the Duke of Cum- 
berland in the game. Before adjourning to play 
a foursome on the Hurst, Carlyle astonished the 
natives by the skill with which he sent a ball 
through an archway under the highroad intersect- 
ing the garden. Garrick was so delighted by the 
feat that he begged the club as a memento. 

Hampton, where Trollope laid the scenes of his 
Three Clerks, by far the best in his opinion as he 
once told me, of his earlier novels, used to boast the 
sobriquet of * Appy.' That came from the annual 
race meeting, a veritable cockney carnival. To 
the turf it was much what the Epping Hunt was 
to the chase ; it was a civic caricature of the Derby, 
with the Derby humours parodied and exaggerated. 
No one except the bookmakers and a sprinkling 
of legs and flats seemed to give a thought to the 
running of the horses. There were shows and 
booths of every description : Short and Codlin, 
Jerry with his performing dogs, were all there ; 



THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES 85 

there were caravans with giants, dwarfs and other 
freaks, nigger minstrels, when they were rather a 
novelty ; and notably troops of frolicksome young 
women with tambourines, who chanted free and 
easy songs, making unblushing advances to up- 
roarious bachelors who had freighted their car- 
riages with champagne hampers. I have seen 
nothing like it before or since, except in ' Sausage 
Alley ' in the Viennese Prater at Easter or Whit- 
suntide. But there was more bitter beer and 
brandy than champagne, which marked the tone 
of the oratherino-. Of course there was some bet- 
ting on the races and a drawing of sweeps, but the 
genuine excitement was in the gambling tents. 
Charlie Lyley and other notorieties did literally a 
roaring trade. Heaps of gold and silver, and occa- 
sionally a flutter of ' flimsies ' changed hands with 
the spinning of the ball. It was in one of these 
canvas hells that Charles Dickens laid the scene 
of Sir Mulberry Hawk's quarrel with his pupil and 
dupe, and such quarrels were likely enough to 
come off, when men were flushed with wine and 
fretted by losses. 

Hotels of famous repute have had their day, 
apparently decaying like the most fashionable 
Parisian restaurants of last century of something 
like dry rot and eclipsing themselves from no 
visible cause. When I knew Hampton Court, the 
Toy, commemorated by Scott in one of his letters, 
had gone ; he had driven down with a select 



86 DAYS OF THE PAST 

party of poets to dine with his son the Major, 
whose regiment was in quarters there. So had 
the hog-backed wooden bridge, with timbers of 
extraordinary length, felled, as Gilbert White tells 
us, in the Hanger of Selborne. But it had been 
succeeded by a capital house, looking out on the 
river, where we dallied over many a quiet little 
dinner, when waiting for the rising moon to light 
us home to Halliford. Sometimes we would send 
portmanteaus by train, and shifting from flannels 
to evening dress, accept the hospitality of the regi- 
ment of light cavalry. The lot of the youngsters in 
the corps seemed always in those days especially 
enviable. They did their duty no doubt, but they 
were full of spirits and flush of money, however 
they came by it, and in the season or out of it, they 
were always on the rampage between the gaieties 
of West London and the tranquil Court. 

Nothing could be gayer than the palace gardens 
on a fine Saturday or Sunday afternoon, and if 
you sympathised in the pleasures of humble folk, 
you could hardly fail to have a good time. The 
rail was circuitous, slow and decorous, and most of 
the merry excursionists came down by van. Albert 
Smith, the cockney novelist par excellence, has 
painted the cockney assemblage with the realistic 
detail of a Paul de Kock or a Zola. There were 
any number of Sprouts playing the cavaliers to 
good-looking Bessies flaunting in all the hues of 
the rainbow; and red-faced 'jolly men' were there 



THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES ^7 

by the dozen. It was worth while getting your- 
self lost in the leafy labyrinths of the Maze, 
for at each turn you came upon loving couples, 
the gentleman always taking the lady's arm when 
his was not round her waist, and in that ideal 
solitude acting as if there were no onlookers 
except the sparrows or the robins. 

Hampton Court was crowded of a holiday, and 
the river of a Sunday was lively from Maidenhead 
downwards ; the only bother was the delay at 
the locks, and that was lightened by the friendly 
interchange of chaff. Immemorial privileges were 
so seldom abused, that there was little enforce- 
ment of riverine rights. The house-boat had 
hardly made its appearance, and when one did 
show, its occupants like the early navigators were 
on their best behaviour, and never made themselves 
obnoxious. On the contrary, they were rather 
welcome to the natives, for their hands were 
generally in their pockets. Here and there a 
quiet party would land for lunch : now and again 
they took up their quarters under canvas, drawing 
on the neighbourhood for supplies. The thread of 
blue smoke rising from the camp fire gave a grace- 
ful touch to the sylvan landscape, and the worst 
damage was widening a gap in the hedge when 
gathering a few fallen branches for fuel. The 
farmers sold their chickens and dairy produce, and 
the cottage children were delighted to run on 
errands before the days of compulsory school 



88 DAYS OF THE PAST 

attendance. Now with all regard for the recreations 
of the public, I am inclined to sympathise with the 
landowners who stand on rights of way, and come 
down upon aggressive excursionists for trespass 
on the rare occasions when they get the chance. 
For these amphibious trespassers are slippery as 
eels and elusive as the reckless motor-car drivers 
who are the terror and horror of our roads. 

Down to Twickenham and Richmond you could 
dream away the time when you shipped the sculls 
or lay on. the oars : you could indulge in romantic 
meditation on the many masters of song who have 
wedded the beauties of the river to immortal verse. 
The swans, undisturbed by the rush of the steam- 
launch, left it to you to avoid a collision, and 
seldom troubled to get out of the way. The punt 
fisher, with bait-can, beer-jar, and luncheon-basket, 
hung himself up between the 'rypecs' on some 
quiet reach of backwater where he could practise 
patience in perfect peace, and no watcher thought 
of disturbing him : even the otters and the water- 
hens, who had still their haunts in the sedges or 
under the willow roots, had no great reason to 
complain. But before taking leave of the non- 
tidal Thames, I must fondly recall one enchant- 
ing resort of mine. It was the Wharfe Farm on 
the Hedsor estate, rented by an old friend of 
mine and one of our boating crew, the brother- 
in-law of Lord Boston, The name commemorated 
the time when there was busy barge traffic on the 



THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES 89 

Thames ; when the barges tied up there to land 
coal or lime, and to load up with fruit and vege- 
tables for the London markets. The way to enjoy 
the quiet was to have a week's hard grinding in 
town over heavy dinners and in crowded drawing- 
rooms. You took the key of the fields on a 
Saturday, with a return ticket from Paddington, 
and at Maidenhead chartered a crawling fly. 
Shot out on the terrace at the door of the 
Wharfe, the transformation scene was exquisite 
and enchanting. We dined with windows opening 
on the little lawn, and the music, which I generally 
detest at dinner, was the chattering of starlings 
and the twittering of sparrows. And the swallows 
were circling and dipping on the river, till the bats, 
streaming out from under the tiled roof, gave them 
warning it was time to retire. When you went 
to your own bed, you were lulled to rest by the 
jug-jug of rival nightingales, and were wakened 
prematurely by the early thrush, whose challenge 
was answered from shrubbery and coppice, and 
whose solo was soon lost in a chorus. You heard 
the crow of the pheasant from the Hedsor woods 
and the gabble of water-loving birds from the 
reed-beds. With sunshine and freshening air 
streaming in through the latticed casement, the 
laziest of mortals could not have lain long in bed. 
Then your boat was on the shore, or rather the 
punt was in readiness, and the boatman had been 
impatiently waiting to punt you out for your bath 



90 DAYS OF THE PAST 

and to inspect his eel-baskets. You took your 
header under the hanging woods of CHeveden, erst 
the bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love, secure 
from intrusion as Diana and her nymphs — though, 
by the way, they were once surprised — as in the 
loneliest of Highland tarns. 



CHAPTER VI 

OLDER EDINBURGH 

Edinburgh in these latter days has flourished by 
law, physic, and divinity, above all by law. It 
lives in a legal atmosphere, and every second man 
you meet is a lawyer. In its legal aspect it is in- 
timately associated with the two biographies of the 
language — BosweWs Jo/znson and Lockhart's ScoU. 
Boswell distinguished himself by failing at the 
Scottish Bar, after heading the mob that broke 
the judges' windows, while Lockhart abandoned it 
to edit the Quarterly. Lockhart before he left gave 
inimitable descriptions of the legal celebrities of 
his time in Peter's Letters to His Kmsfolk. Scott 
had painted the habits of earlier generations in 
the Waverley Novels : when Pleydell devoted the 
week end to buffoonery and high jinks at Cleri- 
hugh's ; when the host of the Hawes Inn was proud 
of his ' ganging plea ' in the Parliament House, 
and when Peter Peebles deemed the notoriety of 
the suit that beggared him the height of earthly 
grandeur. In fact the Scots, who in the Baron 
of Bradwardine's words were made up of martial 
septs, betook themselves to fighting in the law 
courts when feuds had been put down with the 

91 



92 DAYS OF THE PAST 

strong hand. Dandie Dinmont, who would have 
rather settled his neighbourly dispute with cudgel 
or broadsword, wellnigh quarrelled with Coun- 
sellor Pleydell for not lending him a lift towards 
insolvency. So when the lairds were impecunious 
and British colonies in their infancy, law was the 
most thriving of professions. Gentlemen of high 
descent could take to it without derogating : the 
heir, after a course of the Dutch universities, put 
on the wig and gown in the rash presumption that 
it would train him to manage the family estate : 
the cadets preferred a possible competency in the 
gay capital to the chances of adventure, with the 
certainty of hardships, in the Hudson Bay Com- 
pany's service or our East Indian possessions. The 
aristocracy of the robe was the aristocracy of the 
Northern Island. With few exceptions, the judges 
of Session took sonorous titles from hereditary 
estates ; they set the social fashions, and the 
fashions were peculiar. They dined early and 
drank deep. In the courts, which were darksome 
dens, they refreshed themselves from decanters of 
port at their elbows, and found their recreation in 
supping in some squalid tavern, where with talk 
that was sometimes brilliant and always loose, 
they prolonged conviviality into the small hours. 
They had often to be helped home by the ' cadie ' 
in waiting ; but nevertheless they got through a 
vast deal of head-work and drudgery when the 
pleading was chiefly carried on by pen and ink. 



OLDER EDINBURGH 9^ 

When I settled down in Edinburgh some fifty 
years ago, the old order had passed away alto- 
gether ; the decencies of high position were strictly 
observed, and a judge would as soon have thought 
of supping in a tavern, or hotel, as of dancing 2^ pas 
seul in his ermine in the Parliament Close. But 
celebrities still survived — the Whigs were then in the 
ascendant — who had fought the battles of popular 
freedom against the autocracy of Dundas and had 
listened to the savage sentences of Braxfield. 
There were men who had curiously looked on 
at the marvellous drinking feats of such famous 
four-bottle legfislators as Hermiston or Kilkerran. 
Jeffrey had long resigned the editorship of the 
Edinburgh, but he was still seated in the Inner 
House. I remember the reverence with which I 
regarded the wrinkled old litUrateur, whose name 
had become a household word all the world over. 
Political animosities had calmed down with the 
passing of the Reform Bill, and Whig and Tory 
now met on neutral ground, though the struggle 
for place and promotion was fierce as ever in the 
Parliament House. Jeffrey extended his hospi- 
talities to both parties. Craigcrook, his picturesque 
residence, under the northern slopes of Corstor- 
phine Hill, where he used to play leap-frog on the 
lawn when a few years younger, was then really in 
the country. There the landlord still gave weekly 
welcome to legal or literary cronies and contem- 
poraries, and there was generally a gathering on 



94 DAYS OF THE PAST 

Saturdays and Sundays. Some had battled and 
suffered together in adverse times ; others had run 
to extremities of anti-patriotism through the Penin- 
sular War; not a few of the cronies were to drop off 
almost simultaneously. There was Lord Cockburn, 
yNhosQ Memoirs, though embittered by prejudice and 
political animus, give the most vivid pictures of 
the men and manners and abuses of his early days. 
No man was more beloved by his friends and 
family, or with better reason, but for years he had 
been generating gall in the cold shade of political 
ostracism. As Jeffrey had set up his tabernacle 
under Corstorphine, so Cockburn had his home at 
Bonaly, beneath the Pentlands. There was Mon- 
crieff, whom Cockburn loved and laughed at — 
' Crief^e,' as he familiarly calls him — who inherited 
the talents he transmitted to his descendants. 
There was Lord Murray, chiefly famed as host 
and bon vivant, who appreciated the claret and . 
cuisine of Craigcrook ; there were Lords Cunning- 
hame and Rutherfurd. On the death of the latter 
I bought his set of Session Cases, sumptuously 
bound in calf, to be resold very shortly, and sub- 
sequently to be replaced by another set which in 
their turn went to the sale room. 

When I went to Edinburgh to try my fortunes 
in the law, decentralisation and democracy were 
already beginning to affect the lawyers. Yet there 
was still a survival of the immemorial state of 
things described by ' Peter ' in his Letters. All 



OLDER EDINBURGH 95 

cases of importance came for settlement to the 
Supreme Courts ; the advocates were still some- 
thing of a landed aristocracy ; and most of them, 
when they had landed possessions and rose to the 
Bench, took the honorary title from their estates. 
Very embarrassing it sometimes was when they 
went touring on the continent with their untitled 
wives, and punctilious landlords, not understanding 
the connection, rudely turned them away from 
the door. 

Birth and family connection were even more 
profitable to the Writers to the Signet. Fortunate 
firms had transmitted lucrative business from 
father to son. When I was entered for the run- 
ning, serving my time in a Writer to the Signet's 
office, about ^500 was paid for me, in shape of 
apprentice fees, government stamps, etc., I got a 
trifle of it back in copying papers at threepence a 
page, which brought in a professional income of 
about ^^50. That was nearly all I gained in an 
apprenticeship of monotonous routine. Moreover, 
though I had fair connections, prospects were 
being overcast. Hitherto fortunate writers had 
taken things easily ; they managed all the great 
estates, and without giving any guarantee for the 
rents, earned a five per cent, commission by simply 
collecting them. In these days the Bar not only 
offers every man a fair field, but, as in England, 
the best chance of a clever aspirant is to be con- 
nected with firms of solicitors ; and the jurisdiction 



96 DAYS OF THE PAST 

of the county courts having been enlarged, many 
once profitable suits are settled far away from the 
Parliament House. Birth and descent count for 
very little. But it is the Writers to the Signet 
who have most reason for grumbling. The lairds 
were always an impecunious class, but under 
pressure of falling rents and growing mortgages, 
they had learned to look more closely to their out- 
givings. They grudged the Edinburgh agents 
their easy gains, and found local men to do their 
work for what old Trapbois would have called a 
small consideration. A kinsman of my own, of 
moderate estate, to whom I had looked to help me 
towards affluence, said he saved ^150 a year by 
the change. I dare say he did, but it was money 
out of my pocket, so I decided to turn my talents 
to the higher branch of the profession. 

If I never become Lord President or Lord 
Justice - Clerk, perhaps I have only myself to 
blame. I passed the preliminary trials with credit, 
and then devoted a dozen of years to sport, con- 
tinental travel, and other distractions. When I 
came back to put on the wig and gown, my con- 
temporaries had got as many years ahead of me, 
and I was not the man to come on with a rush and 
make up the leeway. Nevertheless, I did a deal 
of pedestrlanism in the long and lofty hall of the 
ancient Parliament House. Edinburgh has the 
pull of London in that respect, for the advocate in 
embryo is always on show. He has not to sit 



OLDER EDINBURGH 97 

waiting for mythical briefs in a sequestered garret in 
some Inn of Court. There are agents to be stalked, 
button-holed, and flattered, and the cynic sees a con- 
siderable amount of unsophisticated human nature. 
In the year I paced the boards, I picked up a few 
guineas for formal motions, and some stray five 
pound notes for assisting at technical proceedings, 
but found no opportunity of distinguishing myself. 
Had I had the chance, I doubt whether I should 
have availed myself of it, for I cannot flatter my- 
self I cut a figure in legal debates in the Juridical 
Society. The orator is shaky on his legs, when he 
knows next to nothing of his subject. So, after a 
twelvemonth, I shook the dust off my feet and 
came south. Yet though that year became in- 
tolerably tiresome as it drew to a close, I have 
rather pleasant recollections of it. The hall itself, 
with its high timbered roof and dim religious light, 
was rich in historical associations of the troublous 
times of distracted Scotland. There were old 
briefless advocates who had made them their study, 
and were always ready to impart their knowledge, 
enthusiastic as Dickens's Jack Bamber over 
lonely chambers in the Inns of Court. There 
were still scintillations of the sparks Lockhart 
tells of, when there were gatherings of the 
junior briefless round the great fireplaces, where 
gossip and jest and repartee went round ; where 
Scott with his toupet, christened by the facetious 
Peter Robertson, ' Peveril of the Peak,' had tossed 

G 



98 DAYS OF THE PAST 

back the clinging sobriquet of ' Peter of the 
Paunch.' 

By the way, in naming notable judges, I forgot 
the humorous Peter. In my time he was still well 
to the fore and as keen after fun and jollity as ever. 
With some of the officers in garrison, we once 
gave a picnic and dance at Roslin, just after war 
had been declared with Russia. Lord Robertson 
arrived late, but came in time to take the chair at 
supper, and characteristically brought a couple of 
bottles of kiimmel. The last we should have, he 
pathetically remarked, so we had better make the 
most of them. By the way, at the sale of his 
lordship's books, I bought his set of the Waverley 
Novels, most of them first editions. They were 
scrawled over with his pencil notes, some of them 
serious, others sneering. One of them is : ' Easy 

writing, Master Walter, is d d hard reading.' 

In another, where Scott in The Bride of Lammer- 
moor preaches patience as the best alleviation of 
human ills, the remark is, ' Very true, Walter ; I 
trust I shall always remember that.' 

I might have held out longer, but for the sense 
of living under the microscope and being con- 
strained to be hypocritical in spite of yourself. 
Every one knew and talked about what everybody 
else did. If you put the foot in a stirrup it was 
a professional scandal ; in common prudence you 
had to sneak out of the stable-yard and head for 
the beautiful country by back streets. Happily 



OLDER EDINBURGH 99 

golf was not only tolerated but encouraged. At 
one o'clock, if — Heaven save the mark — he had 
no pressing business, the youthful advocate was 
supposed to be free, and could betake himself to 
the Links with unruffled conscience. To the links 
of Musselburgh or North Berwick, the decaying 
guild of the caddies had transported itself. When 
Colonel Mannering visited Edinburgh, a caddie 
guided him to Pleydell's lodgings, and Pleydell 
put Dominie Sampson in charge of another. The 
caddies, like the Gallegans, the water-carriers of 
Madrid, were a Highland confraternity with some 
of the barbaric virtues, but with neither prin- 
ciples nor morals. They sold themselves to their 
employer for the time, and charged themselves 
with the most questionable missions. They knew 
every close and den in the Old Town, and as it 
was their business to gather scandalous gossip, 
they were the most serviceable of spies — and 
worse. No Figaro was more tactful in conveying 
a billet-doux, and the fraternity were always able 
and ready to help each other. When society 
shifted to the New Town, their occupation was 
wellnigh gone. Forty years ago there was still 
a remnant of them to be seen, lounging on benches 
at the street corners, with the leathern straps, 
which were the badge of office, on their shoulders. 
They carried bundles of papers for the ' writers ' or 
baggage for the casual tourist. They spoke broken 
Scotch in a guttural Gaelic accent, and in their 



loo DAYS OF THE PAST 

faces you could see that whether business was 
brisk or slack, they were good customers to the 
public round the corner. But the veritable caddie 
had betaken himself to carrying golf clubs. If he 
were sharp and something of a performer, there 
he was sure of regular employment, for golf was 
the solitary recreation, except a walk, in which 
any man might indulge without losing caste or 
credit. I have seen myself the Lord Justice-Clerk 
playing a round with an ex-Moderator of the 
General Assembly. Indeed divines of the olden 
time like Robertson prided themselves on their 
performances with the clubs as on their pulpit 
eloquence. Still on Bruntsfield Links, immune 
Crom building desecration, and overlooked by 
Heriot's Hospital, burghers as grave as ' Jingling 
Geordie ' might be seen doing the daily round in 
scarlet bleached by sunshine and storm. No one 
I ever heard of played on Leith Links, where 
James of York and Cumberland, 'the butcher of 
Culloden,' used to take their pleasure, as golfing 
tradition was still proud to tell. But Mussel- 
burgh was the great resort, and, owing to the press 
of business engagements, the links, save on a 
Saturday, were seldom overcrowded, I cannot 
say so much for the parlour at Mrs. Foreman's, 
near Drummore, so often mentioned in Jupiter 
Carlyle's Reminiscences, where each party on its 
rounds made a point of lunching on the simple 
fare of grilled haddocks and poached eggs. 



OLDER EDINBURGH loi 

Apropos of caddies and luncheons at Mrs. Fore- 
man's, I mentioned Clerihugh's, and every one 
remembers Colonel Mannerinor's amazement when 
he surprised Pleydell at high jinks in that pande- 
monium of roasting and grilling. Great lawyers 
had ceased to frequent the Clerihugh's, where it had 
been their habit to receive clients and hold nightly 
consultations. But there was still a sublimated 
Clerihugh's in the Fleshmarket, a survival of those 
prehistoric days, and the only place for a genuine 
Scottish dinner, with cookery worthy of Meg Dods. 
The approaches were as little alluring as the name 
of the locality. Putting it bluntly, it needed a 
strong stomach to face them, and that indeed was 
indispensable for the fare to follow. Once over 
the threshold it was a highly respectable house, 
and many a memory associates itself with the 
faded moreen of the curtains and the bristling 
horsehair of the sofas. It was all the better if you 
sent your own wines, but the brands of the stronger 
liquors were unexceptionable. The memt might 
safely be left to the landlord. You began with 
cock-a-leekie, hotch-potch, or the barley broth of 
which Dr. Johnson declared he cared not how 
soon he ate of it again ; there were crappit heads, 
crimped salmon or sea-trout fresh from the Firth ; 
sheep's head was followed by steaks sent up hot 
and hot ; winding up with marrow-bones and 
toasted Dunlop cheese. But the grand feature 
of the banquet was the haggis — 'great chieftain 



I02 DAYS OF THE PAST 

of the pudding race ' — the gush of balmy fragrance 
under the insertion of the knife would have given 
an appetite under the ribs of death. The secret 
of judicious excess was an occasional chasse of 
whisky. Once when entertaining some English 
friends, giving one of them his directions and 
bearings, I had asked him to order dinner. The 
dinner was satisfactory, till the haggis came up, 
a pitiful abortion about the size of an apple. The 
host himself appeared, in answer to the breaking 
of the bell-pull, and the apology came before 
indignation found voice. * Lord bless me, sir, 
gin' I had known it was you. They tellt me it 
was English folk, and I kenned weel they would 
never settle the hao-als wi' a dram.' 

Ambrose's must have much resembled that 
sombre dining place in the Fleshmarket, and 
Ambrose's recalls \\\^ Nodes Ambrosiance 2^\di the 
last of the golden age of letters in Edinburgh. 
Fifty years ago or less, there were shining cele- 
brities, — some of them still in the matured strength 
of intellectual activity, and the memory of others 
who had departed was still green. Law and letters 
were closely associated. Many a young briefless 
advocate had eked out his income anonymously, 
and though a successful novel would have been pro- 
fessional suicide, to such an one, a shrievalty put the 
anonymous scribble!* on velvet, and the judge was 
free to take any liberties. Jeffrey and Cockburn 
were cases in point. Professor Aytoun, though 



OLDER EDINBURGH 103 

Sheriff of the Orkneys, like Scott, had thrown 
over law for literature, and 'Willie Aytoun,' joint 
author with Theodore Martin of the Bon Gaultier 
Ballads, was famous for impromptus and the bon 
mot. With Mark Napier, another literary sheriff, 
he did not add to his popularity in Presbyterian 
circles by his passion for Prelacy and high Toryism, 
— for Montrose, Claverhouse, and the persecuting 
Cavaliers who had watered the seeds of the kirk 
with the blood of the martyrs. Talking of Bon 
Gaultier, there never was a grosser calumny than 
that which alleged that the Scot is impervious to 
humour. To say nothing of Dean Ramsay and 
his collections of north country anecdotes, in the 
generation that followed Jeffrey, there was no 
greater social favourite than Lord Neaves, who 
not only wrote comic songs and clever parodies, 
but sang them in a cracked voice that rather re- 
minded you of the croak of the raven. It was a 
sign of the progress of the times when he had an 
extraordinary success with the blasphemous refrain, 
' Let us all be unhappy on Sunday ' ; and when 
with an audacity worthy of Voltaire, he parodied 
the theories of Darwin. Hill Burton, who might 
have sat to Scott for the book-loving Antiquary, 
was writing sober history and his Book-Hiinter 
in lighter vein, in a den in a gloomy old mansion 
beyond Morningside, approached by a weed-grown 
avenue shadowed by secular elms — a cheerless 
counterpart of the sanctum of Monkbarns. His 



I04 DAYS OF THE PAST 

curious library was stored away on shelves in a 
labyrinth of dark passages and cabinets with short 
flights of steps in the most unlikely places. Never- 
theless, when he went groping in the dark, his 
flair for each volume was infallible as that of Con- 
stable. He took his holidays like the proverbial 
waiter whose notion of recreation was helping a 
friend. When he came to London, it was to 
haunt the British Museum, and he never cared to 
sacrifice to the Graces. I see the old gentleman 
now in the hall of the Athenaeum, with hat and 
hair both brushed the wrong way, and the high- 
pointed collar, unattached behind, giving him the 
look of a venerable lop-eared rabbit. Yet to the 
last he was the best of company, over-bubbling 
with genuine Scottish esprit. An early booklet of 
his on the Cairngorums, unfortunately long out of 
print, is the most delightful of guides to the 
recesses of those romantic mountains. 

Every one must be familiar with Christopher 
North from his portraits. I have seen him, with- 
out doubt, though he was never pointed out to me. 
But it always struck me that another professor 
must have resembled him en petit, and both were 
enthusiasts and equally regardless of appearances. 
Blackie was a familiar figure in Princes Street. 
There was ho mistaking his erect carriage, the 
springy step, the piercing eye, the thin and 
nervous hand grasping the heavy staff, with the 
plaid that in all weathers was cast loosely round 



OLDER EDINBURGH 105 

the shoulders. The Professor and I were old 
acquaintances : he had the good sense to take a 
fancy to me as a boy — he then filled the chair of 
Latin in Aberdeen. He gave me the run of his 
book-shelves, and he had works that exactly suited 
me. There were A 'Beckett's Comic History of 
England, Keightley's Fairy Mythology, and Bishop 
Percy's Reliqties. But perhaps the volume of our 
joint predilection was a collection of penny horn- 
books, of which the gem was Dan O' Rotcrke s 
Flight to the Moon. Then the Professor, who 
always had a sweet tooth, had been translating 
-^schylus and was much in the way of poetical 
improvisation. One stanza I best remember was 
inspired by a sight of his tea-table : — 

' My heart leaps up into my mouth, 

And happy now I am. 

When on the table I behold 

A plate of ruddy jam.' 

He was in his finest form when striding up and 
down the room, chanting in a stentorian voice 
his patriotic German war songs. Educated at a 
German University, he was more German than 
the Germans, as afterwards he became more of a 
Highlander than the Celts. 

Christopher North and Maga recall John Black- 
wood, around whom Aytoun, Burton, Neaves, and 
many minor luminaries were revolving. There 
were two centres of attraction, or rather three : 



io6 DAYS OF THE PAST 

the old saloon, 43 George Street, rich in literary 
portraits as another room in Albemarle Street ; the 
hospitable table in Randolph Crescent, where the 
host himself was the magnet ; and the mansion of 
Strathtyrum, near St. Andrews Links, where the 
doors were always open to golfers and all others. 
I heard much of him then, though I only won his 
intimacy years afterwards. What endeared him 
to friends was his staunch friendship, his cheery 
social gifts, and his sterling candour. His con- 
tributors owed him much, for they profited by the 
shrewd and searching criticism, as sound as it was 
kindly offered. If he had a fault as a publisher, it 
was that he was more generous of praise than 
blame, and when he took a fancy to a clever 
contributor, it would have been hard indeed to 
disillusion him. 

With the doctors, happily, I had little to do ; 
but there were men of eminence who perpetuated 
the traditions of the Scottish medical school, and 
drew many wealthy families to Edinburgh. Symes 
was famous for surgical operations, and Simpson, 
with his skill and use of anaesthetics, had, perhaps, 
the largest female clientele in Great Britain. I 
used to hear that the many rooms of his house 
in Queen Street looked in the afternoon like a 
military ambulance after a severe action. 

Outsiders and the ladies o-ave little thouo-ht to 

o o 

the law, but pulpit eloquence was much in favour ; 
and the stage as a magnet of attraction was not in 



OLDER EDINBURGH 107 

it with the pulpit. Scotland was still palpitating 
from the convulsions of the Disruption. Chalmers 
had died in 1847, but his impassioned aides-de- 
camp, with something" less of his sound judgment 
and politic moderation, still upheld the blue 
banner of the Covenant, and had taken for their 
badge the burning bush and the motto of Nee tamen 
consumebatztr. Chief among those who kept the 
fire alive in Edinburgh were Candlish and 
Cunningham, with Dr. Begg of Liberton, a fana- 
tical advocate for total abstinence and the Mosaic 
observance of a Judaical Sabbath; but the most 
eloquent and persuasive of the Free Kirk divines 
was Guthrie. He drew like Rowland Hill or 
Charles Honeyman, though a very different stamp 
of man from either. He attracted alike the 
devout, the fashionables, and those who, like the 
too superstitious citizens of Athens, were keen to 
hear or to tell any new thing to remote St. John's 
at the back of the Castle Rock, looking down on 
the Grassmarket where so many martyrs for the 
Covenant had glorified God on the gibbet. I kept 
a couple of sittings there for several years, and the 
occupant of a seat — a stall I was almost going to say 
— could do no greater kindness than that of offering 
it to a friend. The preacher was intensely dramatic 
in action, and Guthrie might have been a Garrick. 
A grand tragedian, steeped to the soul in the spirit 
of his mission, playing on the emotions at will with 
marvellous versatility, he swept his audience along 



io8 DAYS OF THE PAST 

with him. There was no mistaking his profound 
sincerity ; but he threw himself into each part he 
conceived, and evidently realised the scenes he 
imagined and acted. The magic was that all 
seemed improvised, and not infrequently the strong 
sense of humour would lend a subtle infusion of the 
comic. Most actors warm to their work as they 
go along; Guthrie pitched his keynote at the 
highest, and could sustain it even at that pitch 
when he changed the sensational for the solemn 
appeal. The opening of one sermon I can never 
forget. He reared his tall figure in the pulpit, 
looked into vacancy with the fixed gaze of the 
seer, and began, ' I see a shipwreck.' We heard 
the roar of the storm ; we saw the billows breaking 
over the wreck ; then when all eyes were on the 
sinking ship, he pointed to the castaway, clinging 
to a plank, seemingly lost beyond hope of salva- 
tion. 

The leaders of the Moderates may have been 
learned theologians, but they were ' cauldrife ' 
doctrinaires, and did not appeal to hot gospellers. 
For the most part they preached to half-empty 
churches. Almost a generation later, when acerbities 
had greatly softened, there were eloquent scholars, 
like my genial and accomplished friend Principal 
Tulloch, who could fill great St. George's of a 
summer evening. The aristocratic Episcopalian 
communion, with its quaternion of churches, was 
represented by the venerable Dean Ramsay of 



OLDER EDINBURGH 109 

St. John's. Seats were almost as difficult to get 
there as at the St. John's of Dr. Guthrie. The 
Dean was not a great preacher, but he was a living 
exponent of broad Christian charity. No man was 
more winning, or won more admirers. Had he 
advocated confession, his hours would have been 
fully occupied, for he was adored by the ladies of 
his flock. The chronicler of old Scottish wit and 
humour came from the * Howe of the Mearns,' 
and had endless good stories of family connections 
and old country friends in Forfar and Kincardine. 
Some of them, transplanted to the Borders, have 
reappeared in Mrs. Wugh^ss Recollections of Scott. 
No doubt he condemned the excessive conviviality 
of Lairds of Balnamoon and the drinking bouts of 
Lord Panmure at Brechin Castle, yet there was a 
merry twinkle in his eye when he alluded to these 
scandals and to the lad who was told off to loosen 
the cravats of the boon companions who had slipped 
under the table. Of a summer afternoon after 
service he would stroll out over the Dean Bridge. 
One blustering day when his hat was blown off, 
and went circling down the depths to St. Bernard's 
Well, I remember how the stream of promenaders 
turned amused and affectionate looks on the grey 
hair streaming in the air, when his laughing niece 
was replacing the hat with a handkerchief. But 
such Sunday strolls were virtually forbidden to 
the stricter sect of Sabbatarians. The town was 
absolutely silent, except immediately before and 



no DAYS OF THE PAST 

after the two ' diets of service.' Then for ten 
minutes or so, there was a tread on the pavements, 
as of the march of battalions a trifle out of step. 
Landladies in lodgings struck against cooking hot 
victuals, drawing the line at boiling potatoes ; the 
hotel-keepers who catered for stranger guests were 
regarded as Erastians who risked perdition for 
lucre ; and the Post Office at the extreme end of 
the city was only open for an hour in the early 
morning, when you had to fight for your letters at 
a grating. Knox, Melville, or Henderson would 
turn in their graves, were they to see Princes 
Street now of a fine Sunday summer morning with 
brakes, busses, and tramcars, and its uproarious 
tourist traffic. 



CHAPTER VII 

OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 

Memory looks back on strange changes in Scottish 
society since my boyhood — some I have already 
remarked upon — especially in the northern 
counties, for they were more out of the world. 
Melancholy changes I call them, but that may 
be matter of sentiment. Stagnation, with under- 
currents of quiet but strenuous activity, was only 
occasionally disturbed by ripples on the surface. 
Such as it was, it was a society we shall never see 
again. There was no bustle and little perceptible 
progress. By land the means of transport were few 
and comparatively costly. On the highroads from 
Aberdeen to the South, or to the Highland capital, 
there were at the most two or three coaches /^r 
diem. The day and night mails carried only light 
luggage on the roof; the scarlet-coated guard was 
perched on a breezy tripod at the back, and there 
was a bare half dozen of outside passengers. 
Whether by the mails or the more accommodat- 
ing ' Defiance,' there were odds against being 
picked up anywhere en route. Dr. Johnson spent 
several days at Lichfield, waiting for the chance of 

a cast to London by coach or return post-chaise. 

Ill 



112 DAYS OF THE PAST 

With us things were not altogether so bad as that ; 
but more than once on successive mornings in 
deep snow or bitter frost, I have gone with my 
luggage to the ' smithy ' at the side-road, and after 
toasting myself over the fires of the forge, have 
had to go back to the family breakfast-table from 
a bootless errand. The lumbering coaches on the 
by-routes loaded up to any extent, but after all 
their capacity was limited. Yet rather than be left 
behind, I have held on to a toppling pile of baggage, 
in the company of a collie or a setter choking in 
his collar, and slipping over the edge at intervals 
to be half strangled in the chain. That was no 
place for the prim spinster, contemplating a long 
deferred visit, or for the gouty old gentleman who 
might have liked a last glimpse at the gay world. 
Consequently, as they could not afford posting, they 
stayed at home, sticking tenaciously to their houses 
like mussels to the sea-reefs. For posting came 
uncommonly dear, what with stoppages at the inns 
and tips to the servants and post-boys ; and besides, 
you had to reckon with inevitable delays, for on 
those byways the number of horses was limited. 
Very different it was from the Bath or the Great 
Northern Road, where, when the smoking posters 
dashed up to the door, the relay and the rider were 
always ready. 

In the sleepy county town, though it might boast 
a baron bailie and a town council, the society was 
almost as innocent and unsophisticated as in the 



OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 113 

most world-forsaken of parishes. They knew Httle 
and cared less about politics and public affairs. In 
fact, through the long peace, there was seldom 
exciting news from abroad, till the country after 
waking up with the Crimean War was thrilled by 
the horrors of the Indian Mutiny. Even home 
politics excited small interest and no enthusiasm, 
for if by chance there was a contested election the 
issue was generally a foregone conclusion. All my 
own relations and connections went naturally for 
the sound old Tory with an absolutely safe seat. 
The sitting member's agent had no sort of trouble ; 
he prophesied on velvet and the simplest calcula- 
tions. Each landowner counted the heads of his 
tenants, and saw that they were safely shepherded 
to the poll. I have mentioned that cousin of 
mine who took no little credit to himself for lettinof 
one of his leading farmers, the son of a favourite 
' grieve,' vote according to his conscience for the 
Radical candidate who had not the shadow of 
a chance. Hence the violent revulsion of rural 
Scotland to Radicalism when the ballot assured 
freedom of action, and the Free Kirkers, who were 
invariably Liberal, came to the front. Nevertheless, 
the arrival of the weekly journal was an event 
eagerly looked forward to, because all were pro- 
foundly concerned with ' domestics.' Domestics 
comprehended everything local in the way of news 
or gossip, from births and deaths, markets and 
cattle shows, to presentations, presbytery meetings, 

H 



114 DAYS OF THE PAST 

and ploughing matches. Any amount of space was 
devoted to the speeches at agricultural dinners, 
though always running on identical lines, bristling 
with the familiar platitudes and jokes ; and parochial 
penny-a-liners ran riot in recording local convivial 
gatherings, in complimenting the musicians who 
* discoursed sweet music,' and the landlady who 
served the supper in 'her usual admirable style.' 
The paper passed on from hand to hand, till, be- 
grimed beyond deciphering, it was worn to tatters. 
It was read the more religiously that it cost money, 
for the stamp-duty crippled journalism ; the paper 
tax had not been repealed, and fivepence was a 
grave consideration in a frugal household. On the 
other hand, distance lent a delusive glamour to the 
power, personalities, and omniscience of the Metro- 
politan press, and even tarry-at-home natives of 
some education were quaintly credulous. I can 
recall a queer example. A worthy baronet with 
one of his neighbours was laughing uproariously 
over the latest Punch. Mark Lemon had sent ' Mr. 
Briggs Salmon-hshing and Deer-stalking in the 
Highlands,' and they were tickled by his latest 
mishap. ' I wonder who Briggs is,' said the baronet, 
who fancied him as veritable a personage as Pal- 
merston or Derby, though delicately shrouded 
under a pseudonym. ' Ay, you may be sure they 
know all about him in London,' ejaculated the 
other, ' and I wonder how the poor man takes to 
his notoriety.' 



OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 115 

I used to be taken on visits to various old-lady 
relatives dotted about those county towns. Gener- 
ous to the poor, they lived within modest incomes, 
and their small establishments were regulated 
with the strictest economy. Nevertheless I have 
pleasant recollections of their tables, for they 
prided themselves on family recipes ; they person- 
ally superintended the kitchen and delighted in 
spoiling the young folk with cakes of their own 
baking. Generally they had a single servant, de- 
voted to the mistress, of whom the mistress stood 
in considerable awe, and who was consulted on 
all occasions. They prided themselves on their 
pedigrees, were great in genealogies, and, like 
Walter Scott's grand-aunt, Mrs. Scott of Harden, 
could trace out intricate connections to the tenth 
generation. Though the reverse of rich, as they 
had money to bequeath, they were the objects of 
respectful attentions on the part of impecunious 
relatives. I cannot tax myself with fulsome ob- 
sequiousness, though I had the luck to come in 
for more than one small legacy, and indeed I have 
always fancied I lost a few hundred pounds, because 
I threw over one solemn tea-party for a gay dinner 
in barracks. And that was in somewhat later years 
when I ought to have known better. 

With those worthy old ladies entertainments 
took the form of an early tea, followed by long 
whist and a heavy supper. They made no pretence 
of dinner-giving, and foreign wines were seldom 



ii6 DAYS OF THE PAST 

seen on their tables. On rare occasions wines came 
from the grocer's round the corner, who laid down 
a dozen or two for christenings and burials. I shall 
never forget the wry face of an uncle, when his 
sister, in honour of his visit, brought out a bottle 
of port. A connoisseur of the vintages of the 
Douro, he knew well the qualities of that infernal 
black draught, but he had reasons for keeping well 
with the lady : he manfully braced himself for the 
ordeal, and was much the worse for a week after. 
Port or so-called Bucellus was never wasted on 
me, and I rather liked the currant or the ginger, 
which was always accompanied by sweet cakes. 

There were two sorts of spinster aunts : the frivo- 
lous and the serious. Extreme High Church folk, of 
whom there were many in these parts, though they 
went in for ritual, and long morning prayers from 
the Scottish liturgy — a terrible tax on the patience 
before breakfast — took liberal views of life and 
its innocent amusements. Their evenings were 
lightened by the card-tables, with infinitesimal 
stakes, and they liked to get up an impromptu dance. 
And Presbyterian ladies who belonged to the mode- 
rate party of the Church were likewise relatively 
lax in life and conversation. But it was a serious 
business staying with an evangelical hostess, who 
mortified the flesh in an atmosphere of gloom, and 
held fast to the Calvinism of Knox and Andrew 
Melville, Cards were literally the devil's books, 
for some one was bound to look after the luck, and 



OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 117 

it only could be the Power of Evil. Even the 
strathspey and the reel were snares of Satan, and as 
for the waltz, it was a horror unspeakable. Of the 
theatre they knew nothing, except from vague 
report : no strolling company could ever have 
cleared its expenses in a country town, and even 
in the comparatively populous city of Aberdeen, 
the house was never encouraged by the gentry. 
It paid its way by the aid of pit and gallery, with 
an occasional benefit or gala night under patronage 
of the garrison. 

Almack's was never more exclusive than those 
select parties : ' coming of kenned folk ' was an 
indispensable recommendation, and the line was 
severely drawn above the doctor or the solicitor. 
But the clergyman of whatever denomination 
was an exception ; in Presbyterian circles especi- 
ally, he was a cherished and honoured guest. 
The Episcopalian divines had a somewhat hard 
time of it, though in the north-eastern counties 
most of the greater landowners belonged to their 
flocks. Supported chiefly by voluntary contribu- 
tions, they starved upon small stipends, and wel- 
comed an invitation to a good dinner as a godsend. 
One gentleman I remember, a fine scholar and a 
pluralist too, for he not only had a parochial 
charge and a deanery, but was chaplain to a 
wealthy noble, who as he said himself, kept his 
household chiefly on farinaceous food. Neverthe- 
less the diet agreed with him : he was plump and 



ii8 DAYS OF THE PAST 

well-liking, like the children of the Captivity who 
fattened on pulse, and he always came up to the 
pulpit smiling. When he took for his theme the 
obligation of being temperate in all things, you 
could hardly realise that he was constrained to 
practise the doctrine he preached. It was very 
different with his successor in that cure. An 
incarnation of compulsory asceticism, as if he had 
trained upon pickled herrings and parched peas, 
he looked like a St. Simeon Stylites come down 
from his column. Yet the wiry little man was 
extraordinarily energetic ; he preached once and 
sometimes twice in his own little church, and with 
a fervour of eloquence which should have drawn a 
larger congregation. In the evening he undertook 
a service in a schoolhouse, five miles from his 
vicarage, and if he could not get a lift in a farmer's 
gig, he tramped it on his own little legs. A 
scholar like his predecessor, and a reader with 
slight inducement to study, had his lines been cast 
in the South, he might have held an audience 
spell-bound on his words under the dome of St. 
Paul's, published sermons which would have forced 
themselves on popular notice, and been promoted 
by force of public appreciation to a bishopric. As 
it was, being, as Counsellor Pleydell put it to Guy 
Mannering, a member of the suffering Church of 
Scotland, though the days of persecution had 
passed away, he was inevitably condemned to 
poverty and obscurity, a type of too many of his 



OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 119 

class who were starving on miserable endowments. 
The state of those poor Episcopalian divines in 
partibtis was a scandal, and though all may have 
had a trifle over forty pounds a year, no one of 
them could call himself 'passing rich,' even in 
districts where the cost of living was at a minimum. 
The Presbyterian ' minister ' was an exception- 
ally fortunate man : nine times out of ten when he 
was 'placed,' he had attained the summit of his 
ambitions. He might dream of oratorical triumphs 
and authority in Church Courts, but as to these he 
was comparatively indifferent. For the most part, 
after many fears and hopes, he had risen from 
poverty to relative affluence. Respected for the 
sake of his gown, it was his own fault if he were 
not reverenced, especially by the women. He 
was not very often a gentleman, in the social 
acceptation of the word, and even the sons of the 
manse, who took to the hereditary profession as 
ducklings to the water, were seldom regarded alto- 
gether as the equals of their aristocratic landed 
neighbours. Many of the clergy had risen from 
the ranks, and attained the exalted eminence of 
the pulpit by strenuous efforts of their own and at 
the cost of great sacrifices on the part of relatives. 
They were of a higher order than the modern 
Irish priest, but the ordeal they had gone through 
was not very different. The Aberdeen colleges 
were the clerical nurseries of the North, and notably 
King's College in Old Aberdeen. The session 



I20 DAYS OF THE PAST 

lasted for five months in the year, and for those 
who meant business, it was a time of tremendous 
work — of pinching and sometimes of starving. 
The sleepy old borough, with its long single 
street, was a somewhat gaunt and grim but pic- 
turesque reflection of the English cathedral town 
and the Southern seats of letters. Old Aberdeen 
was the St. Andrews of the North. The shady 
Canonry recalled the departed glories of the 
well-endowed Catholic Church. The low, massive 
spires of the grey cathedral, the graceful, arched, 
and strongly buttressed crown that crested the 
square tower of the college matched well with the 
bare links, the yellow sand-hills, and the moaning 
surf of the northern sea. But the professors were 
snugly housed in old rambling, ramshackle houses 
with great straggling gardens. For seven months 
the ' auld toon ' slept and stagnated ; then it 
wakened up to noisy life with the rush of possible 
ministers in embryo. Each lad or boy of them 
was as keen on cash as any man who stakes his 
napoleons at Monte Carlo. Mr. Andrew Carnegie 
had been anticipated by forgotten philanthropists ; 
each autumn some thirty bursaries, ranging in value 
from thirty pounds down to eight pounds or less, 
were put up to open competition ; and besides 
there were sundry others to which the right of 
presentation was reserved by descendants of the 
original donors. The decision depended on the 
facility of turning English into Latin and vice versa. 



OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 121 

For that purpose every parochial schoolmaster of 
notoriety in the North had turned crammer, and 
the two Grammar Schools in Old and New Aber- 
deen, with their reputation for success, had attracted 
troops of the better-to-do aspirants. 

The lucky youth, who had listened with throb- 
bing heart to the announcements of the successful, 
got his bursary ; then he had to look to ways and 
means and to search out his modest lodging. The 
tenements in the College Bounds swarmed like so 
many rabbit warrens ; two lads might club and 
pig together in a single upper chamber. Literally 
not a few of them cultivated literature on a little 
oatmeal with occasional salt herrings. Some 
took pupils in the recess, when they could get 
them ; others tramped back to their homes in the 
distant Highlands to hire themselves out as field 
labourers or take a summer cruise with the fishing 
craft. One man, I remember, who went to Trinity, 
Cambridge, had broken stones on the roads. The 
best of them, whether in college or away from it, 
burned the midnight oil indefatigably or strained 
aching eyes over guttering tallow. The last Duke 
of Gordon, who was greatly beloved, and who 
deserved better treatment than was given him in 
Lord Cockburn's book, used to delight in giving 
these footsore wayfarers a lift in his chariot, with 
bed and supper to follow, and something to send 
them on their way rejoicing. For like the German 
Reisebilrscken they did not scorn such kindly 



122 DAYS OF THE PAST 

charity, and moreover more than one of those 
chance meetings is said to have led to a presenta- 
tion and a parish. As N. P. WilHs remarked, on 
his visit to Gordon Castle, his Grace was more 
free with the many parishes in his gift than with 
his famous breed of Gordon setters. 

All through the four years' curriculum and the 
subsequent divinity course, the clerical aspirant 
had his gaze set steadily on the pulpit. Failing 
that, there was always the parish school as a pis 
aller, and of that in any case he was pretty sure. 
But taking a school was tantamount to an advocate 
accepting a sub-sheriffship and throwing up the 
sponge. On the road to the pulpit were various 
stumbling-blocks. Country congregations were 
not fastidious as to manners and deportment, 
though some of these rough-bred Highland alumni 
were ungainly and uncouth as Dominie Sampson, 
but like Sampson they never came to wag their 
pow in a pulpit, because the nerve gave way when 
they came to the scratch. If there was anything 
the Scots were hot upon, it was fluent extempore 
preaching : reading from a paper was a sure sign 
that the minister had not the root of the matter in 
him. And then, and I say it with all reverence, 
the long extempore prayers were staggerers to the 
novice. 

In the olden time the patron presented and the 
parishioners had nothing to say in the matter. 
When I was a boy, the rule began to be relaxed, 



OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 123 

and the more liberal-minded patrons gave ' a leet ' 
of a dozen or so, who paraded their paces on as 
many successive Sabbaths before an intensely 
critical congregation. A terrible ordeal it must 
have been, when modest merit, and sensitive self- 
consciousness were the most likely to go to the 
wall. 

Going back more years than I care to think of, 
I call up the interior of a country church and the 
pew in front of the gallery facing the pulpit in 
which I was seated, when a competition came to 
its climax. In front was a row of cushioned chairs, 
with the eagle crest of the family carved on the 
backs ; behind these a double row of seats for the 
servants. The front places in the galleries at 
right angles on either side were occupied by other 
lairds or landowners. All were draped with cloth, 
often faded and moth-eaten, though if there had 
been a recent death in the household, it had been 
renewed in dismal black. Immediately beneath 
the pulpit was the precentor's box ; in the dusk of 
the wintry afternoon service, it was his duty to 
read out the metrical psalms by couplets before 
striking up the stave ; ex officio he was an authori- 
tative judge. At the bottom of the stairs was the 
square pew filled with the elders of the kirk- 
session, the final court of appeal. But it was a 
thoroughly democratic assemblage, and the elders 
only reflected popular opinion. Each soul in the 
crowded church, except the school-boys and the 



124 DAYS OF THE PAST 

small children, were deeply interested auditors. 
Some sixty years ago the costumes were primitive 
and picturesque. Most of the males were in 
decent black, in coats kept carefully in 'kists,' and 
handed down as heirlooms. But though the parish 
was below the Highland line, there was a sprink- 
ling of shepherds in rough homespun, with checked 
plaids belted across their broad shoulders, and some- 
times accompanied by the collies which crouched at 
their feet. Yet the sombre o-loom of the interior 
was relieved by patches of colour. The old wives 
were regular attendants at public worship, travel- 
ling in all weathers from remote farm steadings 
and cottages, seated on trusses of straw in jolting 
carts ; but on this extraordinary occasion they had 
mustered in unusual strength. They were all got 
up in scarlet cloaks, or roquelaures — much as they 
loathed the Scarlet Woman of Babylon, they unani- 
mously copied her attire — and in high white 
'mutches,' with flowing lappets and black bows. 
Every woman of them brought a great bunch of 
mint or thyme, or some strong-smelling herbs, 
warranted as anti-soporific as the goodman's 
pungent snuff. Nor was it an unnecessary pre- 
caution, for with hermetically sealed windows the 
atmosphere was overpowering. 

It was an extraordinary occasion, for out of a 
list of half a dozen candidates, five had already 
preached 'with no approval.' The chance had* 
now come to the sixth, and it was known that there 



OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 125 

was some romance attaching to the decision. He 
was a nephew of the late minister, and it was 
notorious that he had lost his heart to the bonniest 
of all the belles of the parish. If he got the kirk, 
they would be married right away ; if he failed to 
catch the tide of fortune at the flow, the couple 
must wait — indefinitely. And there was his 
blushing lady-love — a mistake, perhaps — sheltering 
under the wing of her practical mother, who would 
never give her away to a ' stickit ' preacher. 

So the youth, who, like David, was ruddy and 
well-favoured, had the sympathies of the congrega- 
tion. Nevertheless, with so much involved, it was 
a terrible ordeal, and boy as I was, I felt for him. 
The colour went and came in his pallid cheeks, but 
he got through the preliminaries tolerably well. 
The sermon was the big leap, and it was a ques- 
tion whether he could stay and clear it. All eyes 
were riveted on him as he rose ; and his fingers 
trembled nervously as he opened the Bible. ' Eh, 
man,' I heard the old butler mutter behind me, 
* half a bottle of port or a mutchkin of Glenlivet 
would mak' a' the differ now.' It seemed likely, 
indeed, that for lack of stimulants there would be 
a regular breakdown ; the candidate was clearly 
stricken with stage fright. He stammered; he stut- 
tered out a sentence or two, and then came to a 
full stop. There were audible ejaculations of ' puir 
lad,' and the rosy face of the half-betrothed was 
white as her pocket napkin. The preacher leaned 



126 DAYS OF THE PAST 

forward on the cushion for what might have been 
half a minute, but seemed hke half an hour. Then 
he rose, evidently divested of fears and detached 
from terrestrial surroundings ; the faltering accents 
swelled into a volume of sublime self-confidence, 
and for a full hour he poured forth a simple, fervid, 
eloquent discourse which struck straight home to 
the hearts of the hearers. There was no formal 
preparation there ; it was the outpouring of familiar 
thoughts and profound feeling, in an outburst of 
inspiration. It was like the dramatic triumph of a 
prima donna in embryo, if there were neither shouts 
of applause nor showers of bouquets. The cause 
was won with the manse and the wife. 

In the far-scattered peopling of a wide Scottish 
parish, the kirkyard of a Sunday was the gossiping 
and rallying place. There thoughts were thought 
and words were spoken which should have been 
forbidden by austere Sabbatical observance. When 
the bell began to toll, as the minister was seen 
emerpfinp- from the manse, the men sat clustered 
like so many rooks on the low, encircling dykes. 
Generally, when the long-winded preacher had 
dismissed them, they were in haste to get home 
to dine. But on this occasion, though a bitter 
east wind was soughing through the boughs of 
the storm-twisted ashes, the male communicants 
remained in a body to give the pastor-elect an 
ovation. He had to shake as many horny hands, 
in proportion, as an American President at a 



OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 127 

reception in the White House. Few have the 
gifts to take a parish by storm like that ; but 
thenceforth such a minister, if orthodox, has a 
free hand ; he is the revered and infallible pope 
of his own little spiritual dominion. 

When the minister was married and settled in 
the manse, he might shape his course pretty much 
as he pleased. The moderates, who swore by 
patronage and detested popular suffrage, generally 
took life easily. Their dry discourses were as 
strictly doctrinal and dogmatical as those of the 
divines of the Georgian era in England. How 
well I remember a church whither I was taken on 
a Sabbath day's drive of four miles by the patron 
of the parish who disliked the duty of the obser- 
vance at least as much as myself Both he and 
that wearisome preacher punctiliously discharged 
their duties. Most of the scattered flock came 
from a distance and could not be expected to 
make two journeys in the day. So after the 
morning 'diet,' which lasted two mortal hours, 
wet or dry, we aristocrats withdrew to the vestry, 
while the mob were turned into the churchyard for 
a fifteen minutes' interval. By that time the old 
doctor had got his second wind, and we worked 
through the second spell of somniferous weariness. 
No soul could have profited by it, and, I fancy, no 
one was more conscious of that than the minister. 

More likely than not I had seen him the even- 
ing before at the mansion house, for he was ever 



128 DAYS OF THE PAST 

welcome there. Dry as a stick in the pulpit, he was 
merry company out of it, fluent of jest, full of good 
stories, in which his brethren of the Presbytery 
were never spared. He was a favourable specimen 
of that particular Presbytery, which was a scandal 
to broad Scotland, indirectly doing more than 
any other to precipitate the lamentable Disruption. 
But our friend was lenient to the failings of his 
confreres, though in an unpublished epitaph he 
wrote for one of them, he broadly stigmatised him 
as the drunken departed. For himself, he was a 
merry man within beseeming bounds, with a portly 
figure, a rubicund face, and a nose that had been 
coloured by whole casks of carefully matured 
spirits. Catch that minister making h^vock of 
his constitution by venturing on new Glenlivet or 
raw Ferintosh. All the clergy of that fine old 
crusted school were bon vivants according to their 
lights and means. As Christopher North remarked 
of himself and the Ettrick Shepherd, they were 
men not only of good but of great appetites. We 
used always to be on the look-out for their sending 
twice for hotch-potch or the solid Scotch hare soup, 
by way of launching themselves handsomely on the 
courses of a heavy dinner. They never pretended 
to be connoisseurs in wines, though they took 
kindly to port, and had no objection to occasional 
champagne. But the best of dinners would have 
wanted the coping-stone, if they had not topped 
off with tumblers of whisky toddy before joining 



OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 129 

the ladies. To tell the truth, that toddy as a 
wind-up was not unwelcome to anybody. As a 
youth I used to visit in a somewhat stately 
mansion, where everything ran on rather ultra- 
luxurious lines, and the native spirit was ordinarily 
ignored. A neighbouring minister was a frequent 
guest ; a leader of his party, he had more than 
once been Moderator of the General Assembly. 
A man of the world who had mixed much in 
society, he carried himself with the dignity of an 
archbishop. In his case an exception was always 
made. Instead of the coffee the butler brought in 
the kettle, and it was a sight to see the good man 
religiously mixing the materials. Every one fol- 
lowed suit ; even southerners followed his lead ; the 
claret decanters were swept aside, and sometimes 
tumbler succeeded to tumbler, till the company 
adjourned in indecorous hilarity. As for the arch- 
bishop, he was a seasoned vessel, who, though 
ardently religious according to his lights, per- 
petuated the traditions of the cultured Edinburgh 
school, where one of the most eloquent of moderate 
divines who married a woman of fortune, kept one 
of the most hospitable of tables, and was notorious 
for carrying more claret discreetly than any of the 
hard-drinking Lords of Session. It was averred 
that when a company of these jovial and fairly well- 
beneficed clericals came together to celebrate the 
close of the biennial 'sacramental occasion,' the 
merriment was fast and verging on the furious. 

I 



I30 DAYS OF THE PAST 

Michael Scott, who knew his Scotland well, sets 
Aaron Bang to describe such a ' Gaudeamus ' in 
Tom Cringle's Log. ' Oh, the fun of such a 
meeting ! the feast of reason, and the flow of 
Ferintosh, and the rich stories, ay, fatter even 
than I would venture on, and the cricket-like 
chirps of laughter of the probationer, and the loud 
independent guffaw of the placed minister, and 
the sly innuendos when our freens got half-fou.' 
Aaron may have been censorious, if not calum- 
nious — he was a Catholic — but I know our friend 
the Archbishop was never more in his element 
than when filling the chair at some dinner of 
the tenantry in honour of the occasion, or at the 
marriage of some parochial laird. With his quiet 
humour, his native drollery, and the tact with 
which he blended subtle flattery of the host, with 
compromising hopes and expectations of all that 
would be done for the farmers, he was an inimit- 
able after-dinner speaker. 

The minister made the most of his orlebe and 
was a shrewd hand at a bargain over corn or 
cattle. He had seldom much chance of transla- 
tion to a richer benefice, and when once settled in 
his parish he had struck his roots deep. He was 
sure to have a large family, and he was bound to 
give the boys a good education and a fair start. 
So he was always set on the augmentation of 
stipend, for which application was invariably made 
at decent intervals. As invariably the heritors 



OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 131 

or parochial landowners showed fight, and the 
question was threshed out in the Teind Court in 
Edinburgh, Once in the week all the thirteen 
scarlet-robed judges of Session assembled to 
decide on the appeals. These interludes came 
as reliefs to the ordinary solemnity of the civil 
courts. The ministers were to be seen seated 
with anxious faces behind their agents and counsel. 
Facetious pleaders had the pick of the briefs, and 
all manner of ingenious arguments were adduced 
to show that the case for an increment was 
irresistible. As a rule, augmentation worked 
automatically, for it was indisputable that living 
expenses were on the rise, and the petitioner 
went back to his parish with his mind relieved. 

Against those easy-going moderates, the evan- 
gelicals or high-fliers, as they were called, had been 
lifting up their testimony from time immemorial. 
They inherited the traditions of Covenanters and 
Cameronians ; they resented the supremacy of the 
Law Courts in matters ecclesiastical, and specially 
objected to the abuses of patronage. I can 
remember the convulsions of the Disruption which 
stirred Scotland to its depths from Berwick to 
Wick. It had been preceded by the revivals 
which Mrs. Oliphant dramatically described in 
one of the best of her Scottish novels. They 
were somewhat similar, yet in striking contrast to 
the ' Holy Fairs,' satirised and ridiculed by Burns 
with too good reason. These Holy Fairs were 



132 DAYS OF THE PAST 

great sacramental gatherings, when the most sacred 
ordinance was made the excuse for drinking, 
feasting, flirtations leading to worse things, and 
every sort of unholy revelry. The revivals, which 
chiefly ran their course in the Highlands, appealed 
to the fervour and transcendentalism of the 
emotional Celtic temperament. Whole congrega- 
tions were dissolved in tears, or thrown into 
paroxysms of desponding penitence. They had 
prepared the way for the Secession, which was 
precipitated by one or two strong cases of * in- 
trusion,' when the parishioners barricaded the 
kirk doors against an incumbent who could only 
preach to empty pews. 

They may say what they like of the Scot 
looking closely to sixpences : when great prin- 
ciples are at stake, he will scatter bank-notes 
broadcast, and stint himself to keep up his 
subscriptions year after year. Four hundred 
and seventy ministers resigned their benefices, 
following Chalmers from St. Andrew's Church to 
the Canonmills, trusting their future and that 
of their families to the liberality of their lay 
supporters ; nor was their confidence misplaced. 
I can faintly remember that memorable pro- 
cession : the black-coated ministers leading the 
way, followed by an excited train of elders and 
laymen through the silent and sympathetic crowds. 
I was taken one evening to the vast, low-roofed 
hall of Canonmills gas-works, and remember the 



OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 133 

fervour that filled the enthusiastic audience, strain- 
inof their ears to catch each word from the revered 
leaders, as they stood forward on the platform. 
There were Chalmers, Candlish, Cunningham, and 
many others, each with his own following of ardent 
admirers, but sinking individual differences in a 
community of exultant hope and assurance. There 
were few laymen of social importance, but two 
stood forward conspicuously : Fox Maule and 
Mackgill Crichton. I fancy Fox Maule gave 
the movement his support purely from political 
motives. Be that as it may, I remember the effect 
he produced when he addressed ' The Fathers and 
Brethren,' in calm, impressive, gentlemanly accents 
— rather foreign to the general conception of his 
character — the smooth English accent contrasting 
with the Doric of some of the eloquent divines. 

The urgent question was that of ways and 
means. To find stipends for five hundred ousted 
ministers, to build as many churches, manses, and 
schools was no light matter for a section of a 
frugal people, who, if they backed out of the affair, 
could find free accommodation in the parish kirks. 
If the dissentient clergymen had been carried out 
on a swell of enthusiasm, they were like to find 
themselves stranded. But from the first the rank 
and file came down handsomely ; and when a 
Scot commits himself, he is slow to go back. I 
have been told that an uncle of my own set a 
match to the fire at a meeting of the leaders in 



134 DAYS OF THE PAST 

the first week of the Secession. Plans and strategy 
were being discussed on general grounds, when 
this blunt and impetuous naval officer got up and 
said : ' All that is very well, gentlemen, but surely 
it can wait : the question is, what each of us is 
to subscribe.' For himself, though by no means 
wealthy, he gave liberally with both hands, and he 
was only one of many. Another memory I have, 
as the Chevalier Beaujeu remarked in The For- 
tunes of Nigel. Effective speakers were sent 
forth to travel the country, and beat up subscrip- 
tions to the building and sustentation funds. One 
of the most effective and seductive was Mac- 
donald of Blairgowrie, who everywhere had the 
welcome of a St. Paul, and described himself very 
truly as a red-headed laddie. His gift of persuasion 
was simply marvellous, and when he spoke of 
future returns upon spiritual investments, I doubt 
if Spurgeon could have been in it with him. And, 
like Spurgeon, he was eminently practical in his 
methods. I was taken by that relative of mine to 
a great gathering where he held his audience spell- 
bound, till having heated them with his own blaz- 
ing fire, he came abruptly to his point. * Now, 
what will you contribute weekly to the cause — out 
of your trade profits — out of your daily earnings ? 
Think well before you promise, for there must be 
no drawing back ; it is far better not to vow, than 
to vow and not to pay ; but if you pledge yourself, 
put your solemn pledges on paper, if it be only for 



OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 135 

a penny a week.' And straightway through all 
that crowded hall, there was a crackling of shreds 
of paper, and a general borrowing of pencils. 
The remarkable fact was that those vast annual 
subscriptions steadily rose instead of sagging 
away. The seceders had no monopoly of piety 
or benevolence ; but after sketching the typical 
minister of the moderate persuasion, it is but 
fair to give this companion picture of the men 
who, for their convictions, turned out of the manse, 
at the risk of seeing their children on the parish. 



CHAPTER VIII 

SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 

From ministers to messes is a sharp transition, 
but I must own that, as the Americans say, there 
was a time when I had more truck with the one 
than with the other. Twice I had nearly taken 
the shilling : once when I had actually the gift of 
an appointment to the Indian cavalry in the old 
days of the Company, and again when I was on 
the point of being gazetted straight off to a 
captaincy in a crack militia corps. I threw up 
the former under irresistible pressure at the 
eleventh hour ; and the other bit of manipula- 
tion never came off, for the Lord- Lieutenant of 
the county declared at the last moment that he 
could not sign the commission or sanction so gross 
an abuse. No doubt his Grace was in the right, 
and I could only growl and resign myself. At 
any rate, as a Scotsman, I had the consolation of 
not having ordered uniform and outfit, as the 
Colonel had warned me to do. My hope had 
been to find a hundred recruits from the regiment, 
and on the strength of that public service be 
transferred to the line. Compelled to renounce 
dreams of military glory ,^ I fell back in the mean- 

136 



SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 137 

time on military society, so that friends and 
relations used to chaff me about my brother 
officers. I don't know if the society was im- 
proving, but I do know it was very agreeable. 
The long peace had brought into the army men 
who were eager enough to fight if the chance 
turned up, but who loved to take life in piping 
times easily and luxuriously. They rather boasted 
of being Her Majesty's hard bargains, though 
really, from the pecuniary point of view, Her 
Majesty had much the best of it. The newly 
fledged ensign had the wages of a capable artisan, 
and was expected not only to live up to his posi- 
tion, but to launch out incidentally in all manner 
of extravagances. Of course it was a fellow's own 
fault if he did not cut his coat according to his 
cloth. He ought to have known the tone and 
character of regiments beforehand. Some were 
well-off but sedate, others were rich and reck- 
less ; in the line, or the marching regiments, 
as they were called, some were known to be con- 
strained to a dignified economy, while others, like 
the Rifle Brigade and the 60th and the crack 
Highland corps, were on the borderland between 
the Guards or the Household Cavalry and the 
involuntary economists. Anyhow, all were capital 
fellows, bound together by strong bonds of brother- 
hood. For which very reason they tried to shunt 
any man who obviously was unlikely to suit 
them. They were really inspired by the best of 



138 DAYS OF THE PAST 

feelings in apparently rather ugly episodes, when 
field officers ignored the bully-ragging by sub- 
alterns, and the colonel, whose pride was in his 
regiment, serenely winked at the proceedings. On 
the other hand, I have known cases where a 
pauper of the right sort, who had followed an 
irresistible vocation with but a mere trifle beyond 
his pay, was lifted along discreetly and in the most 
delicate fashion. Somehow he found comrades 
who stuck to him as staunchly as in Kipling's 
Soldiers Three. Those impecunious ones had 
nothing for it but to wait for a war or the chances 
of Indian service, yet sometimes, if over-sensitive, 
they were cornered in painful positions. One case 
I remember which touched me nearly. In Edin- 
burgh I had been hand-in-glove with a lieutenant 
of the 33rd or 8,2nd, I forget which. He had often 
dined with me, and I had so many acquaintances in 
his mess, that I scarcely noted whether an invita- 
tion ever came from him. The day came when, 
after a long and rather lonely cruise down the 
Adriatic, I landed at Corfu. The old regiment was 
in garrison there, and I climbed the heights to the 
citadel, to ask for my friend, counting confidently 
on a bright dinner and a merry evening. We sat 
and talked and talked, and still no invitation came. 
It seemed so inevitable, that though I surmised 
where the hitch was, I was only anxious to get out 
of the room ; my old acquaintance was blushing to 
the roots of his carroty hair, and a comrade, who 



SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 139 

made a third in the party, was the most embar- 
rassed of the three. Sympathetic, I walked back 
to the hotel, past the saluting sentries, to try the 
Corfu cookery. Later in the evening the comrade 
looked me up ; he had sneaked out of barracks as 
if he was scouting in an enemy's country, but he 
came to explain, for the honour of the regiment. 
My acquaintance was not only hard up, but in 
debt; he would not spend a shilling unnecessarily 
in the circumstances, but in intense humiliation 
and mortification, he had fairly broken down when 
I had left. As for myself, my visitor went on, I 
could not for the world have aggravated his pain 
by interfering. The little trouble cut both ways, 
for not to prolong his griefs I shortened my stay 
at Corfu. 

That, however, was an exceptional case; as a 
rule the men, though seldom rich, were affluent 
or in easy circumstances. In the Highland regi- 
ments especially, which generally then had their 
depots in Scotland, the majority were members of 
ancient families, and some were the heirs to chief- 
taincies and vast tracts of mountain and moorland. 
They all knew or were known by name to every- 
body. Whenever there was a county ball or dance, 
invitations were circulated through the garrisons 
with offers of hospitable quarters. I fancy the 
regimental business was carried on somehow, but 
three-fourths of the fellows seemed always on short 
leave. The great winter gaieties in Edinburgh 



I40 DAYS OF THE PAST 

came as matters of course ; it was the business of 
the Scottish military to support them. What 
crowded carriages there were, from Perth and 
Stirhng, even from distant Fort George, to the 
balls of the New Club and the United Service! 
Other entertainments were arranged for the same 
week, and how we used to keep it up on interven- 
ing nights at the Castle or the Cavalry Barracks at 
Piershill ! Musselburgh Races — a poor affair — or 
the more aristocratic racing of the annual Cale- 
donian Meeting were always fair excuses for an 
outing. And when nothing particular was going- 
forward, what belated symposia there used to be, 
in one of the Princes Street hotels, with jest and 
song and healths with Highland honours, winding 
up with ' Auld Lang Syne ' and the right good 
willie-waught ! One of the last and the merriest, 
like the farewell banquet at Holyrood before 
Flodden, was when the first regiments were under 
orders for the Bosphorus, before the Crimean War. 
After that death was busy ; promotion came fast, 
and boys barely of age came back as full captains. 
The song of that evening was ' The Maids of 
Merry England,' by a gunner; it brought down 
the room, but he seemed to have the shadow of his 
impending fate on his brow, and he fell behind his 
guns at the Alma. 

Stirling used to be a favourite resort of mine in 
those days. Sometimes I put up at Campbell's 
Hotel in the High Street, but I preferred the more 



SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 141 

ample elbow-room of the hostelries at Bridge of 
Allan. There was no more delightful headquarters 
for romantic excursions, when the railway had 
been opened up the valley of the Teith. Before 
that, the fun was perhaps even better, when we 
used to organise driving and fishing expeditions on 
drag or dogcart to the Trossachs and the lakes 
and streams in the country of the Lady of the 
Lake. When I had renounced my dreams of 
military distinction for the ambition of being Lord 
President of the Court of Session, I retired one 
summer to the Dreadnought Hotel at Callander in 
July, for solitary and severe study of the law. 
Never did a well-intended scheme come to more 
dismal failure. Even when alone the seductions 
of the summer-time were almost irresistible. But 
when under a gloomy sky, with threatenings of a 
depressing drizzle, I had settled down to Bell or 
Erskine, I might be disturbed by the sound of 
wheels and the discords of a key-bugle. Then 
would come the tread of feet on the stair, and the 
inburst of a lot of jovial anglers. * Never was 
such a day for Loch Ard or the Lake of Menteith.' 
There was no help for it ; you had to go. Who 
could resist the sight of the rods ; the knowledge 
that the carriages were charged with seductive 
hampers and lashings of good liquor, and above 
all the certainty of merry companionship ? Suc- 
cessful or the reverse, those days of trolling and 
casting on Loch Ard were intensely enjoyable. It 



142 DAYS OF THE PAST 

did not need the so-called rusty broadsword of 
Rob Roy suspended to a tree before the hostelry 
to inspire you with the spirit of the novel. As you 
listened to the crow of the grouse-cock, the wail 
of the plover, and the whistle of the whaup, you 
thought of the gloaming when the Bailie and 
Frank Osbaldistone, cheered by the glimmering 
lights in the manse of Aberfoyle, were consoled 
by venison collops, and brandy in the clachan, 
after being recommended by the anxious landlady 
to bivouac in the moss-flow. As you revelled in 
the scenery or played with the vigorous trout, you 
felt profoundly grateful that times were changed 
and that you could count on a peaceful dinner at 
the Dreadnought before drinking the doch-an- 
dorras with your comrades from the Castle. 

Many a time have I gone for a solitary ramble 
with my rod up the Allan from * the Bridge ' to 
Greenloaning in the springtide, and pleasant sport 
one used to have in those days, though the trout 
were small. The ' Banks of Allan Water,' famous 
in Scottish song, were fragrant with the honey- 
scents of furze and broom, and melodious with the 
matins and evensongs of the green linties. But 
the happiest outings I had there were in the depths 
of bitter winter, when still waters were icebound, 
and the Allan itself was trickling feebly between 
snow-crusted banks, through snow-flakes and ice- 
floes. The Caledonian Curling Club held the 
great annual contest between North and South 



SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 143 

on flooded meadows close to the station of Black- 
ford. The Black Watch was then quartered in 
Stirling, and many of the Highlandmen were keen 
curlers, and had been engaged to play for their 
local clubs. For days before the weather had 
been matter of intense anxiety, for if a thaw set 
in, the matches must be deferred. A good deal 
of money was staked on the event, though there 
were always optimists to lay odds on the frost 
lasting ; nevertheless, at mess the evening before, 
with a cloudy sky, there was no little searching 
of spirit. It was joyful news when the man 
who called you in the morning, announced, like 
Sam Weller, that the water in the basin was a 
mask o' ice. Subalterns, who chronically detested 
the reveille, were on the alert and tumbling into 
their garments. The curling-stones from Clydes- 
dale, Ailsa Craig, or Burnock Water, snugly repos- 
ing in their baskets, were carefully put in charge 
of the railway guard. We slowed off as we 
approached Blackford in a block of advancing 
trains ; and already excitement was being wrought 
up to fever pitch by the roar of distant voices. 
Train after train, from south and north, had been 
disgorging their crowded contents, half-drunk with 
enthusiasm and prematurely primed with whisky. 
Cricket is not in it with curling for levelling of 
ranks and the assertion of meritorious manhood. 
It was a place of strange meetings. A Cameron 
or a Macdonald, the crown-prince of some ancient 



144 DAYS OF THE PAST 

patriarchal family, might be seen clasping the horny 
hand of a blacksmith from Badenoch, or fraternising 
with some stalwart poacher from Lochaber, notori- 
ously in the habit of raiding his father's forests. 
Ranks were ignored and feuds forgotten for the 
day. If the smith was skip of the rink, his young 
master obeyed him implicitly. Scores, or I may 
say hundreds, of games were going forward simul- 
taneously on the broad sheets of ice ; fires were 
kindled on the frozen shore, where kettles were 
boiling and ale was being mulled ; there was no 
lack of refreshments of all sorts, and the convivi- 
ality might have been deemed excessive had not 
the cold and violent exercise toned it down. The 
dusk was falling, the match had been decided, and 
the great gathering was breaking up. Then the 
players resumed their places in the social ranks. 
The smith made his humble adieux, pocketing 
gratefully the coins transferred in a handgrip ; the 
poacher would have sneaked off shamefacedly had 
he not been recalled to get a ranker's modest 
commendation for his skipping. And whether 
vanquished or victorious, had not every one been 
in good-humour, there might have been free fights, 
as sanguinary, if not so deadly, as the combat 
of the clans in the lists at Perth. There were 
carriages in plenty drawing up, but what were 
they among so many ? How the ruck got away 
before nightfall on those occasions I never under- 
stood — the laggards, I fancy, must have lain out 



SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 145 

in their wraps or plaids — but I know that once I 
went back to Stirling on the knees of a drover in 
a third-class carriage, in an atmosphere reeking of 
spirits, foul tobacco, and perspiration ; and on 
another occasion I travelled to Edinburgh on the 
engine, roasting and freezing alternately as I 
changed sides before the furnace. 

Applications for leave thickened at the approach 
of the shooting season ; for the most part they 
were generously granted by a sympathetic com- 
manding officer, and then, I imagine, the regimental 
duties devolved to a great extent on the admirable 
non-commissioned officers, for the ranks were 
stiffened with veterans. Opportunities for sport 
were innumerable, and invitations were pressing. 
There were comrades who had forests in Badenoch 
or moors on Deeside or in Lochaber ; some of 
them hailed from the wilds of Sutherland or the 
hills of misty Skye. And the unfortunates who 
were doomed to stagnate on garrison duty, looked 
forward enviously to the arrival of local journals 
recording the feats of their friends in the opening 
days of the season. It was poor consolation that 
disappointment was sweetened by the arrival of 
boxes of game from all quarters, till even sergeants 
and corporals began to sicken of the savoury meat 
as the Israelites wearied of the quails in the 
wilderness. Later in the season, hands were 
dealt out more indiscriminately and honours were 
divided. From social considerations the garrison 



T46 DAYS OF THE PAST 

guns were always in request, for ' the Army ' was 
quite as popular in Scotland with marriageable 
maidens and their mothers as in Galway or Kerry. 
A wagonette crowded fore and aft, loaded with 
gun-cases and portmanteaus, would rattle up to the 
door, when the long day would begin with an 
elaborate second breakfast. The sport might be 
good or indifferent, but the evening was sure to be 
a success. The host produced his oldest claret, 
and where could one get such Bordeaux as in 
those Scottish cellars of the olden time ? It was 
late ere the bell was rung for coffee, and then the 
rooms had been cleared for the dance. If any of 
the soldiers had to go back for morning parade, 
they were handsomely launched on the homeward 
drive with libations of old cognac or mellowed 
whisky from the crested cut-crystal decanters on 
the side-table. 

There were no better companions than the 
scientists of the scientific corps, and I ought to 
know. The engineers on duty, and the officers 
charged with surveillance of the survey, had their 
headquarters in Edinburgh, with no barracks, 
and they had to find billets for themselves. For 
several years I kept house with three of them ; the 
fifth of the party was an artilleryman in the north 
on the recruiting service. It may be understood 
what manner of men they were when I say, that 
of the three engineers, not the least promising 
went off prematurely ; that both the others died 



SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 147 

generals and K.C.B.'s, and that one of them had 
been Inspector-General of Fortifications. In 'the 
Diggings,' as they were familiarly called, we kept 
open house, feasting in an off-hand way, and being 
feasted in turn by the various regiments. When 
'at Home,' of an evening, there was always whist, 
with supper on the sideboard. Our opposite 
neighbours used to orumble at unseasonable 
hours, though admitting there were compensations, 
for the street was safe from nocturnal burglary, 
and the services of the police could be dispensed 
with. James Payn, who became one of my best 
friends, was a constant guest at our whist table ; 
he was then editing Chambers s Journal, and 
always grumbling good-humouredly, like Louis 
Stevenson, at the winds from the Firth, the eternal 
sea-fog, and the drift of the whirling dust pillars 
along Princes Street, like so many ' dervishes of 
the desert.' 

The engineers were men of culture, with a 
literary turn that attracted Payn. They had a 
talent for drawing as well as for triangulation ; 
they were devoted to shooting and fishing, and 
many a delightful ramble I have had with them, as 
we roamed the length and breadth of Scotland. 
Often we found free quarters in some pleasant 
house where they were known and welcomed ; more 
often, when duty led them into the wilderness, we 
tried the accommodation of Highland inns, or of 
rough hostelries far away from tourists' tracks on 



148 DAYS OF THE PAST 

the Borders, or in the soHtudes of the south-west, 
where the hill-folk, hunted down by Claverhouse 
or Grierson, used to hide themselves in dens and 
caves, lulled to sleep by the roar of such a 
cataract as masked the lurking-place of Balfour of 
Burleigh. Everywhere were scenes for the brush 
or pencil, and streams with swift rushes and 
swirling waters, where you needed ask no per- 
mission to fish. We had evenings in the classical 
Tibby Shells, on ' lone St. Mary's Loch,' redolent 
of memories of the Shepherd and the Nodes, and 
there we once forgathered with Russel of the 
Scotsman, who perpetuated the traditions of North 
and Tickler. A man so merry within the limits of 
becoming mirth, with such readiness of repartee, 
with so rich a fund of jest and anecdote, it has 
seldom been my fate to meet. I remember when 
arriving late at Elvanfoot, among the bleakest of 
the bare Lanarkshire hills, some sheep-fair being 
on in the neighbourhood, we were invited to take 
halves of the beds, already occupied by a couple 
of Dandie Dinmonts. That we declined, and as 
our shakedowns were not specially tempting, we 
prolonged the sitting after a solid supper. My 
friend, who was of a jovial temperament, and had 
a fine voice, struck up ' Jock o' Hazeldean.' The 
melody drew ; a farmer stumbled into the room, 
insisting on joining in a stentorian chorus. The 
other man followed, charmed at finding himself in 
good company, declared he was a first-class hand 



SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 149 

at a bowl of punch, and forthwith roused the land- 
lady to fetch the materials. With a feeble protest, 
' Siccan a man as you I never saw,' she complied, 
and not only produced the spirits and sugar, but 
her husband. The upshot was, that the Borderers 
never went back to bed ; and that we sought our 
couches on the floor about the time we should 
have been getting up for breakfast. It reminded us 
of Scott's experiences among his Border hills, when, 
as Shortreed phrased it, 'he was making himself.' 

In autumn the cuisine in the small Highland 
inns, if slightly semi-barbaric, was in its way irre- 
proachable. If you took them by surprise, you 
might have to rough it on eggs and bacon, or a 
chicken, hunted down and ' brandered ' off-hand as 
in an Indian bungalow. But give them notice in 
the morning before going out with rod and sketch- 
book, and there was no cause for complaint. 
Hotch-potch, or game soup, trout or salmon, 
grouse, and cranberries and cream was the 
invariable menu, and the grouse was generally 
forthcoming, whether poached or honestly pur- 
chased. On that score, like the Dominie when he 
dipped into Meg Merrilees' cauldron, we had no 
conscientious qualms. By the way, at Aviemore, 
and in some of the mountain villages near the 
sources of the Spey and Don, we varied the 
cranberries with averns, which are even more 
delectable. It is a mountain berry, only growing 
in the loftiest corries, and as little known as the 



I50 DAYS OF THE PAST 

mangasteen even in the Scottish lowlands. There 
were inns that had their specialties, and kept 
up immemorial customs, where they invariably 
speeded the parting guest with a beaker of Athol 
Brose, a diabolically deleterious mixture, of which 
the main ingredients are whisky and honey. 
Johnson praised it once — theoretically — when 
comparing it with the Cornish ' mahogany,' which 
is a compound of gin and molasses. He was safe 
in asserting that it must be better, because the 
materials were better, which was not saying much. 
Sometimes the officers' visit would be to the 
little encampment, in some sheltered glen on the 
high slopes of such mountains as Ben Nevis or 
Ben Macdhui. The white bell tents, and the 
bright scarlet made a homelike show in these 
blustering solitudes, but once or twice, hesitating 
to bivouac in cramped quarters, we sought shelter 
in a convenient shepherd's shealing, where we 
were assured of hospitable welcome ; the embar- 
rassment was that you caused an infinity of trouble, 
though it was evident enough that the visit was a 
pride and pleasure. The good wife welcomed the 
unwonted stir, and if the shepherd, used to solitude 
and the society of his dogs, seemed somewhat 
sullen of mood, it was manner rather than tempera- 
ment. He thirsted for knowledge of the news of 
the day, and your talk with a gift of the latest of 
the county journals was an even more effectual 
open sesame to his heart than the tobacco pouch or 



SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 151 

cigar case. The supper was somewhat of a trial ; 
not that there was any shortcoming, for there were 
eggs and bacon, butter and cheese, and bannocks 
from the griddle. But as you were carrying no 
gun, you brought no game, and the ' braxie,' 
produced as the plat de resistance, was a dish to 
scunner at. It was mutton which had come to an 
untimely end — probably found drowned in the 
burn, after several days' saturation. Out of polite- 
ness you were bound to taste, and even seem to 
enjoy it; yet like the snails served to the Scotch 

philosophers, Black and Ferguson, it tasted 'd d 

green,' and reminded one of the diabolical mess 
served to Curzon of the Levant monasteries by the 
Albanian abbot, which courtesy compelled him 
to attempt. The kettle was swinging from the 
hook over the peat fire, and sociability constrained 
us to sip more toddy than we cared for, considering 
the fiery quality of the raw spirit, but pleasanter or 
more informing chat on all matters connected with 
sheep-farming, wild winter tales and mountain 
superstitions, I never wish to indulge in. There 
were snowy sheets awaiting us, if we cared to use 
them, but not being fanatical entomologists, these 
we had learned to distrust. There were heather 
shoots and trusses of mountain hay in the loft 
above the outhouse, and no wearied man needed 
desire a more fragrant couch. Up betimes, after 
a plunge in the nearest pool, the shepherd gave us 
a long convoy on our next day's 'travel.' The 



152 DAYS OF THE PAST 

worst of it was, you could only repay him with 
a handshake, and you had no chance, as after using 
or abusing the hospitality of the Great St. Bernard, 
of slipping gold into a money-box behind his back. 
Talking of dining reminds me of the old messes. 
Much of the change must be in oneself, from days 
when you had no liver, never dreamed of indiges- 
tion or insomnia, and when the spirits were ever 
ready to rise to boiling-point. But it does strike 
me that much of the old joviality is gone. Our 
officers may be more scientific, but they are less 
companionable and convivial. In those piping 
times of peace they were driven with loose reins, 
and there were no sumptuary restrictions. It was 
not quite as Lever described things in the West 
Cork militia, where every man backed his comrade's 
bills to any extent, till they actually became waste- 
paper with the discounting fraternity ; but under 
the purchasing system there was a flow of cash, and 
the mess was managed with large-minded liberality. 
Guest nights were frequent, apparently with carte 
blanche in the way of invitations, and one regiment 
never missed an occasion of giving the other that 
came as relief a magnificent reception. In the 
corps that prided themselves on going the pace, 
the monthly wine bills must have been something 
portentous. If a guest of the old time were dining 
at a modern mess, two changes would strike him 
particularly. Then in the regiments of foot all the 
faces were clean-shaven ; the razor only went out 



SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 153 

with the Crimean War and the winters on the 
storm-swept Chersonese plateau. Then the friendly- 
fashion of hobnobbing over the wine-glasses was in 
full force, and if you were bidden to the feast by a 
popular officer, before the entrees had made way for 
the joints, you had dropped into a circle of cordial 
acquaintances. I remember how greatly I felt 
flattered as a raw youth, when as the mess waiter 
touched me on the shoulder and whispered, I saw 
the grave colonel bowing and smiling. In due 
course subalterns and captains followed suit, and 
the general interchange of civilities made you free 
of the anteroom, when you adjourned for cigars, 
brandy and sodas, and limited or unlimited loo. 

Much of the regimental money went for music, 
and though personally I think music a nuisance 
during dinner and fatal to pleasant talk, the band 
striking up in the anteroom gave a festal solemnity 
to the guest nights. Even unmelodious souls 
prided themselves on the music, professing to be 
critical, as the band was tending towards wood, or 
brass, or string. One thing I always did find 
overpowering, and that was the march of half a 
dozen pipers round the Highland mess table. The 
most characteristic part of the Celtic entertainment 
was the silver-bound quaichs of old whisky which 
circulated simultaneously, and it was a gladsome 
moment when the pipe-major, or whatever he was 
called, tossed off a scallop-shell at the president's 
elbow, saluted, and retired. But the devotion of 



154 DAYS OF THE PAST 

the Celt to the bagpipe is a sentiment and a passion. 
I have heard it with most complacency in foreign 
stations, when the wail of the pipes playing 
* Lochaber no more ' and the pathetic melodies 
of the pipers' native glens brought on a passing 
touch of homesickness. Merely a passing touch, 
for there were no more exhilarating interludes in a 
foreign tour than those when in the sunny Medi- 
terranean you found yourself back again in Scotland 
or old England. Nowhere is the Briton more 
uncompromisingly British ; nowhere do you more 
gratefully appreciate the power of the ocean empire. 
Never shall I forget the December afternoon, 
when, after the long ride from Algesiras, we 
spurred our fagged hacks to a canter to pass 
Gibraltar gates before gunfire. The smart sentry 
in scarlet, standing severely to attention, was such 
a striking contrast to the slouching Spaniard, even 
when mounting guard before the royal palace at 
Madrid. When we drew bridle before the Casino 
Hotel, the square-shouldered corporals and ser- 
geants, with the stripes of their ranks on their arms, 
moved like so many princes among the mixed 
rabble of Turks, heretics, and infidels, Berbers, 
Jews, and Scorpions of the Rock. But it must be 
confessed they showed some lack of adaptation, 
and carried their northern habits along with them. 
In the public room on the rez de chaussde, with 
its sanded floor, was an overpowering odour of 
London porter and strong Edinburgh ale. Had 



SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 155 

we come in summer it would have been exactly 
the same, and so it was in all the Mediterranean 
garrisons. Disapproving of such suicidal practices, 
nevertheless, I can sympathise. One spring I 
had taken a coasting steamer from the Isthmus 
down the Gulf of Corinth. We were bound for the 
Ionian Isles, touching at all intermediate ports. 
The weather was already scorching, the water in 
the carafes was lukewarm, and the only other 
liquor on board was the native Greek wine, im- 
pregnated with resin, and provocative of thirst. 
The sole chance I had of quenching that thirst 
satisfactorily was in a cafe at Patras, where ice was 
forthcoming, and where I robbed an orchard to fill 
my handkerchief with sour apples. When Zante 
was sighted, I could appreciate the sufferings of 
the adventurers who go fossicking for diamonds in 
Khama's Thirstland. Tumbling out upon the pier, 
I rushed into the arms of a British sergeant, and 
implored him to take me to the best liquor in the 
nearest tavern. And never shall I forget those 
draughts of stout, when I emptied two tankards 
in quick succession. The only case to parallel it 
was after walking from the Great St. Bernard to 
Aosta beneath the glowing chalk cliffs, when sub- 
siding into a bath, with a salver of luscious figs, 
I disposed of as many bottles of Asti Spumante. 

And I am bound to say the commissioned officers 
in their degree kept the non-commissioned and the 
rank and file in countenance. Next day I shifted 



156 DAYS OF THE PAST 

quarters from the Casino Hotel to barracks on the 
heights, where, sorely against the wishes of kindly 
entertainers, I insisted on being made an honorary 
member of the mess. A merrier set of fellows, 
with a more brotherly esprit de corps, I never wish 
to meet. It was comparatively cool Christmastide, 
when one might take liberties ; and the essential 
merits of the regimental cellar were undeniable. 
But the staple liquor was fiery sherry, and it could 
not be said there was not a headache in a hogshead 
of it, though it only wanted maturing and a less 
tropical climate to make it delectable. In the 
Ionian Isles it was otherwise, for there the expa- 
triated garrison did not feel bound to patronise the 
vintages of the country. Even the classical Chian 
is a tradition of the past, and Greek vintages mean 
colic, diarrhoea, or dysentery. The wines, like the 
cognac, came from France ; they harmonised with 
the softness of a climate always tempered by fresh 
sea-breezes. Many an old soldier lamented the 
day when Mr. Gladstone handed those Edens over 
to the Hellenes. I remember trying my influence 
with Delane of the Times, when the proposal was 
broached, saying that the Premier's next move 
might be the cession of Gibraltar. He only said 
that the Minister who gave up Gibraltar should be 
hanged, and took no action in the matter. There 
was nothing more jolly than those mess nights in 
the Isles of Greece ; and though I have mentioned 
a day when I went without a mess dinner at Corfu, 



SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 157 

I was more fortunate on other occasions. Zante 
had its fascinations, but Cephalonia was charming. 
There was generally a mixed party at mess, and 
the talk ran on other subjects than pipeclay. 
Yachts or Her Majesty's ships were always coming 
into harbour. Men were arranging shooting trips 
to the Albanian coast, or talking over big bags and 
sensational adventures among shepherds, wilder 
than their own savage sheep-dogs, with whom 
nevertheless they had fraternised and drilled into 
tolerable beaters. There was a captain of a cruiser, 
now a distino^uished admiral and a K.C.B., aoainst 
whom I was always running up, at home and abroad. 
Fond of his jokes, he added a pang to my last fare- 
well to Cephalonia. The Austrian Lloyd's boat, 
on which I had embarked, was leisurely slipping 
her moorings, when he steamed into the harbour 
and ranged up alongside. Standing on the paddle- 
box and catching sight of me, he bolted below, to 
rush up again and shake a grinning boar's head 
in my face, and shout out a fabulous total of his 
slaughter of snipe and cocks. 

For myself, I always detested London in the 
season, and had I had unlimited means and the entry 
to the most select circles, should still have preferred 
the country or the Continent. But if you were in 
town, I knew no more pleasant invitation than that 
to the Guards' mess in St. James's Palace. It was 
little that the cuisine was as unexceptionable as the 
wines. But all the Guards were more or less men 



158 DAYS OF THE PAST 

of the world, and it was amusing to see the latest- 
joined subaltern, who had probably graduated at 
Eton or Harrow, striving, not unsuccessfully, to ape 
the airs and talk of the seniors. They might not 
be scientific, and assuredly they were not pedantic, 
but they had the light culture that sits gracefully on 
the accomplished soldier, and the tact that puts the 
stranger guest on easy terms with himself, though he 
may know few of their intimates and miss many of the 
allusions. Moreover, he was never absolutely alone, 
for a breath from a somewhat different society came 
with the officers on duty who had strolled through 
the Park from the Horse Guards. For dining 
with the Life Guards in their own barracks, you 
were conscious of a change of tone. You met 
Rawdon Crawley and Captain Macmurdo. The 
horse, in one shape or another, was a staple subject 
of talk ; familiars of Tattersall's, they had the odds 
on the favourites at their fingers' ends ; and with 
one eye on the Shires and the other on the livery 
stables, were ever open to a deal or a bet. They 
were undeniable authorities on the personel of the 
opera, the theatre, and the ballet ; but long years 
were to elapse before the music-hall or polo came 
into fashion, so they missed some engrossing topics 
of latter-day talk. Capital company they were, all 
the same, especially outside one of their drags at 
a race-meeting, though dangerous over unlimited 
loo in the small-hours, with the flush of champagne- 
cup and curagoa punch. 



CHAPTER IX 

SOME FLUTTERS ON THE STOCK EXCHANGE 

When I went eastward to the India House or the 
P. and O. offices, I was on pleasure bent : on my 
early visits to the Stock Exchange I combined 
business with pleasure, or at least with sensation. 
I know no better amusement than winning steadily, 
but it is long since I have renounced speculation, 
especially dabbling in new companies. More than 
I ever gained, they got out of me, and notwith- 
standing the recent decline, I am still convinced 
there is nothing like consols — if you can only afford 
enough of them. Very probably I should never 
have gambled if I had not gained heavily at the 
ofo-off. It was in this wise. I had a dozen or so 
of shares in the Union Bank of Scotland, when 
they fell ominously in a wild burst of panic. With 
all sorts of sinister rumours in the air, it seemed 
even betting on a smash. I did not fancy throwing 
my shares away, and if I held, the liability was 
unlimited — at least so far as my small resources 
went. Had I dreamed then of turning my talents to 
letters, I might have written an intensely realistic 
novel on the terrors of two horribly anxious days, 
though, by the way, the author of John Halifax, 

159 



i6o DAYS OF THE PAST 

Gentleman, had just then anticipated me. Then 
I made up my mind to 'go a mucker.' In spite of 
the solemn warnings of my broker, the only man in 
my confidence, I realised all the securities I possessed 
and put them into Union Bank shares. I was brought 
to that momentous decision by a chance meeting 
with an elderly baronet, a safe man and a sleeping- 
partner in the bank. He said it would be all 
right, and his smile was more reassuring than his 
words. He told me, moreover, that while the 
cashiers were facing the run and paying off 
anxious depositors, the rival Edinburgh establish- 
ments were sending in notes and coin by the back 
door. After all, I have some searchings of heart 
now, as to the strict honesty of my proceedings. 
True, if the bank went, I should be beggared my- 
self, but that was no excuse for courting liabilities 
I could not have met. Be that as it may, I did it, 
and with brilliant results. The shares went up, 
rather faster than they had gone down, and on 
the strength of the relief and the stroke of good 
fortune, I straightway started on a foreign trip. 

Some of the shares were sold to finance myself, 
and I should have done better had I parted with 
more, or stayed at home to watch the market. 
There was one of those reactions, which the 
experienced speculator would have expected. 
Nevertheless, on my way through London, the 
Tempter sent a second turn of luck. I dined with 
a clever friend, an engineer on Indian Irrigation 



THE STOCK EXCHANGE i6i 

works. He swore by the Madras Irrigation, and 
induced me to buy lOO shares, a pound paid up, at 
a trifling premium. I have seldom enjoyed the Eng- 
Hsh papers more than on that tour, which carried 
me by easy stages from Sicily to Trieste and thence 
down the Dalmatian coast to the Ionian Islands. 
Whenever it was my luck to open a Times, those 
shares were going up like mercury in the dog-days. 
We garrisoned the islands then, and the night 
I dined with the forces in Cephalonia, the shares 
were quoted at ^5 or £6. It must be admitted 
it was doing fairly well to quintuple capital in 
six weeks or so, and so I was led to back East India 
Irrigations, which were by no means a success. 

Then my relations began with Throgmorton 
Street and the old Stock Exchange. I was for- 
tunate in an introduction to one of the most genial, 
capable, and fatherly of brokers, who afterwards 
established his claim to a Scottish peerage. He 
stuck chiefly to the American market ; amassed a 
solid fortune, and the world seemed to go wondrous 
well with him. Always smiling, never in a flurry, 
he would give any amount of consideration to your 
miserable trivialities. Had I listened to him, I 
should seldom have burned my fingers, and should 
never have made the coups which tempt one to go 
on gambling. We hear of nothing now but stag- 
nation on the Stock Exchange, and of packs of 
famished wolves reduced to worrying each other. 
Those were the golden days when prosperity was 

L 



i62 DAYS OF THE PAST 

advancing by leaps and bounds, and when the 
promotion of companies was the sure road to 
moneymaking ; if you only cut clear of the schemes 
in time. Everything went automatically to a 
premium, and systematic stagging was a profitable 
business. It may be much the same now; I am 
sure I don't know ; but I remember then that one 
used to be deafened at the swing-doors by the roar 
of boisterous business from the House. It used 
always to be a marvel to me, when your broker's 
name was shouted through the confusion how 
promptly he responded. My friend always came 
out beaming, and not infrequently afterwards, 
when he answered the summons, I was in anxiety 
or sore tribulation. Speculation in stocks is like 
rouge et noir, for even in normal circumstances the 
odds must be against the player. Then you 
waited impatiently while he went in again, and 
came back to report on the trend of the market. 
You had to make up your mind at a few seconds' 
notice, whether you would sell or hold. Some- 
times you had plunged into troubled water, and 
after wading waist deep were up to the chin. 
Bombay had been booming during the American 
Civil War ; speculators made great fortunes in 
Indian cotton ; the old Indian Banks paying 
fabulous dividends were at fancy prices, and new 
competitors underselling them, were doing a roaring 
trade. Then when a pacified America began to 
grow cotton for export again, the bubble of that 



THE STOCK EXCHANGE 163 

inflated business was pricked. It was almost an 
oriental version of the collapse of the South Sea 
scheme. The shares of the Chartered Mercan- 
tile had fallen from — I think — about 120 to some- 
thing over 45. I believed the Bank was sound ; 
thought I saw my chance, and bought. Sadly- 
disappointed as to elasticity and recuperative 
power, I saw the shares declining with dear 
money and a high Bank rate. The experienced 
manager of the Union of Scotland had warned me 
that those Indian Banks had breakers ahead, but 
like a fool I did not cut a trifling loss and sell. I 
never regretted it more than after Black Monday, 
when Overend and Gurneys put up their shutters. 
The news of the panic came to Edinburgh with 
a Tuesday's Courant; I walked the Parliament 
House that day in a worry, and as professional 
engagements were not engrossing, took the night 
train to town. The morning papers I bought at 
Newcastle, York, etc., were by no means exhilar- 
ating. Each speculative share I held seemed to 
be tossing in a bubbling caldron, with strong 
tendencies to settle to the bottom. My cheery 
broker, though depressed, was still optimistic, 
recommending me to see it out and wait for 
developments. That was my own feeling, and I 
tried to divert my mind, but I never had a worse 
time at the pleasant old Tavistock : the Times 
played the mischief with one's appetite for break- 
fast, and the latest edition of the Globe spoiled 



i64 DAYS OF THE PAST 

digestion for dinner. Next evening, going down 
to dine at Norwood, I had lively company in the 
train. A knot of spruce young stockbrokers were 
talking shop, with the keen zest of the onlooker 
who has no personal stake on the upshot. ' The 
Indian Banks had it pretty hot to-day, but nothing 
to what will come off to-morrow.' They were true 
prophets. At that time Mr. Leeson of York had 
not introduced his Bank Act, and the bears 
might sell any number of shares, without giving 
the numbers as vouchers for ownership. The new 
Bombay Banks, whose shares had gone to a high 
premium on issue, were in the depths : distracted 
holders were ready to sacrifice their property on any 
terms which might relieve them of liability. ' If 
you care for a flutter,' said my broker's clerk play- 
fully, 'you may buy Hindustans at 4.' I fancy 
they had been at 30 a few days before. I smiled 
grimly, for I did not care at that moment to 
increase my small holdings in Indian banks. My 
own Chartered Mercantiles were falling fast, and 
the Oriental, which was regarded by Anglo- Indians 
as a trifle more stable than the Old Lady in 
Threadneedle Street, was shaking on its solid foun- 
dations. That is the time when a man must come 
to swift decision upon momentous issues. I did 
not sell Mercantiles. I held in the faith that the 
weeding of weak competitors would send them up 
to something approaching the former fancy price. 
That blissful day never arrived, for with the close 



THE STOCK EXCHANGE 165 

of the Civil War, the Southern States were again 
shipping full cargoes to Liverpool ; and I had 
leisure to meditate on the sage warning of the 
Scottish banker. Finally, losing patience I con- 
sulted with the financial expert who then edited the 
Times City Article, as to changing my investment 
to the Oriental. Rather to my surprise, he strongly 
dissuaded me, recommending me, if I would continue 
to play on the same colour, to put my money on the 
Chartered of India and Australia. I should have 
done well had I taken that advice. But I did cut 
the Mercantile, which went sagging away, till it died 
a natural death, to be reconstructed ; and I did not 
go into the Oriental, which burst up soon after, 
carrying desolation to Anglo-Indian investors, with 
a frightful smashing of rich civilians' nest eggs. 

There is no denying that banks, with their un- 
called liabilities, are risky. If one could afford 
consols it would be well to steer clear of them, 
but at least they give you excitement and a long 
run for your money, and there are times when 
your confidence has its reward. With stakes in 
the two great Anglo-Australian Banks, I ran the 
whole gamut of sharp sensations in the crisis of 
the Australian panic. There were storm signals 
which one ought to have heeded, — the difficulties 
of some small establishments at Melbourne, and 
the passing of the dividend in a big ironmongery 
store in which I had an interest, which had paid 
15 per cent, when the city was booming. The 



i66 DAYS OF THE PAST 

storm burst suddenly after all, and there was little 
time to strike or shorten sail, without heart- 
rending sacrifices of spars and canvas. Each 
morning came news of banks in good credit, stop- 
ping payment and going in for convenient ' re- 
construction.' Things culminated one day when 
I saw in the morning paper the collapse of 
three of the best ; I hurried off to my banker in the 
city, who said that when the Commercial of Sydney 
had closed its doors — a panic-stricken act of pre- 
cipitate folly — he could answer for nothing. He 
had been so sceptical that he had sent a clerk 
to verify the fact, and theretofore he had always 
strongly advocated my holding. I walked across 
to take counsel with my friend, the editor of the 
great city journal, and he counselled in the same 
hesitating key. But he took me across the way 
to the Union of London, where they expressed 
the strongest confidence that my special Banks 
must pull through. A notable financial authority 
spoke in similar fashion, saying that the names 
on the Boards were sufficient guarantee for good 
backing, and that if the Bank of England did not 
come ostensibly to the rescue, yet it must lend 
efficient assistance underhand. In fact, I fussed as 
much as if I had millions at hazard, but then it was 
matter of material import to me, and in this case I 
did worry the trouble through, with results that 
have yearly been becoming more satisfactory. 
After all, as Mr. Squeers said of threshing a boy 



THE STOCK EXCHANGE 167 

in a cab, there is a pleasure in it too, so long as 
you do not actually come to grief. The fun of a 
race is soon over, when your fancy wins or is 
beaten. In stock broking convulsions, the excite- 
ment, sometimes tending towards agony, is long 
drawn out, but there are the blissful moments of 
temporary relief, when you read encouraging para- 
graphs in the city articles, and if you shoot the 
rapids and float off in smooth water, that sense of 
relief is simply paradisiacal. 

Banks are chancy speculations at the best, but 
they are not in it with juvenile finance companies. 
Not even when you stand in with the promoters 
and are brought in on the ground-floor. When 
the 'House at the Corner' was converted into a 
limited company, I believe I might have had an 
allotment of a few original shares, under promise 
of not realising for the premium. But a wise old 
partner who had been bought out, gave me a 
glance over a glass of port, and I forbore. How- 
ever, the mania of financing everything had set in ; 
anything floated by such experts as Albert Grant 
went up like a balloon, and it was hard to resist the 
temptation of venturing. I tried my luck with 
the London Financial, launched with an un- 
impeachable Board under the presidency of an 
ex-chairman of the Hudson Bay Company. Fortun- 
ately for me, the chairman's promise of an allotment 
was broken, for the London Financial followed 
Overend and Gurneys to Basinghall Street. All 



i68 DAYS OF THE PAST 

the same that speculative fever was catching, and I 
was bound to burn my fingers. I had been in the 
East ; I had talked to attaches, consuls, and 
merchants ; I had read various instructive works 
on Turkey ; I had great faith in the resources and 
capabilities of the Ottoman Empire, if developed 
by British capital and enterprise. So the ' Ottoman 
Financial Association ' seemed the very thing for 
my money. As I know now by melancholy ex- 
perience, I ought to have cried off, and sold, when 
they gave me all the shares I wrote for. But it 
was my Kismet to embark on that rotten craft, 
and I shipped with some show of reason. A year 
or two before I had bought a small lot of Ottoman 
Bank Shares at ^^lo — 'entirely your own idea,' as 
my banker said patronisingly — and had sold at over 
^20. I bought in again, by the way, to scorch 
myself severely when Turkey repudiated. But to 
go back to the present venture, I had discussed 
Turkey as an inviting field of enterprise with 
the Hon. Thomas Bruce, then chairman of the 
Ottoman Bank. He was sanguine also, and 
meant to work for Turkish reg'eneration and good 
dividends to his shareholders, but on a large scale 
by deliberate methods, and with the powerful 
machinery of his influential corporation. Had I con- 
sulted him as to the Ottoman Financial, he would 
have laughed its inception to scorn. There were 
decent English names on the direction, but the 
majority were Greek, which in itself should have 



THE STOCK EXCHANGE 169 

made me distrustful. The only Turkish schemes 
we financed were some powder mills on the 
Bosphorus, which no company would insure on 
any terms. They did not blow up, but of course 
they collapsed. We lent and lost more of our 
money in a shady London Bank, and of all things 
in the world, we temporarily invested any super- 
fluous cash in Swedish forests and iron mines 
which never paid a shilling. I presume the 
Articles of Association — which I never saw — were 
loosely drawn, or the directors dared not have 
indulged in such pranks. So long as the boom was 
on, the shares kept about par, and we had one or 
two dividends. Then they weakened, then they 
sunk, and one day I hurried eastward in a hansom, 
resolved to sell out at any price. By hard luck 
there was an announcement that morning that 
three new directors had strengthened the board ; 
the shares had shot up, and so i held on. 

Naturally the crash came in course, when in place 
of a dividend there was a heavy call. I went to 
the office and interviewed the obsequious secre- 
tary, with a Simian forehead, diamond studs, and 
gold-linked shirt-cuffs turned back to the elbow. 
The mere sight of the man should have been 
a warning, but he solemnly assured me before 
a cloud of clerk-witnesses, that the call would 
yield immediate returns, and that the company 
possessed a most valuable property. Next week 
it was in liquidation, and for the first and last time 



I70 DAYS OF THE PAST 

I attended a company meeting. It appeared that 
the Articles had been so adroitly drawn, that we 
unlucky English investors were legally bound to pay 
off the Oriental shareholders in full. There was a 
second call and a third before we heard the last of 
that transaction. What impressed my innocence 
most was the obvious way in which the liquidator, 
an honourable man, I daresay, and certainly a 
member of a leading firm of accountants, did his 
best to shield the directors and draw the wool 
over the eyes of the victims. 1 said something 
at the time ; I insisted on personally interviewing 
him ; I had been doubly aggravated by seeing 
the secretary standing at his elbow through the 
meeting and prompting. I had told my story to 
the meeting, and taxed the secretary broadly with 
the shameless mendacity he could not deny. All 
the satisfaction I had of it then was an off-hand, 
' If you had gone to the directors they would have 
told you everything.' And now when I repre- 
sented that as the secretary had tacitly admitted 
himself a rascal it was scandalous to continue his 
salary and virtually to intrust him with the winding 
up, the worthy liquidator gave me to understand 
that in the interests of the liquidation he knew too 
much to be dismissed. No doubt I might have 
taken my revenge, for I could have subpoenaed 
witnesses enough to convict the secretary, but 
though the moral of this story is that of fools and 
their money, I was not mad enough to throw more 



THE STOCK EXCHANGE 171 

good coin after bad by trying to get damages out 
of a man of straw. 

Mines were tempting ventures for those hasten- 
ing to be rich, and, in my earHer days, a compara- 
tively limited market. California was notoriously 
in the hands of Americans who were * in the 
know,' and English eyes were generally turned 
to Brazil and the Central American republics. 
In a happy hour I dipped in Don Pedro North 
Del Reys, buying at ten or twelve shillings, and 
selling shortly afterwards for nearly ten times the 
money. In a happy hour, I say, not because I 
made money, for immediately afterwards they had 
it all out of me again when I went in for speculat- 
ing in Nicaragua and Guatemala. But what with 
liquidations and calls, or selling out at an alarming 
sacrifice, I got such a sickener that though I 
struck a fair balance-sheet on the whole, I have 
never since been involved in the incalculable 
fluctuations of manipulated markets. If I missed 
the boom in South Africans, when Rands were 
steadily on the rise, I have spared myself all 
the subsequent sorrows of disappointments long 
drawn out and over-capitalised certainties. Years 
ago I came to the conclusion that the specula- 
tive investments of the uninformed outsider are 
simply loss and sorrow ; and I give my experience 
for what it is worth. Gilt-edged securities are 
cheapest in the end, even if peace of mind were 
not a luxury well worth paying for. 



CHAPTER X 

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 

My connection with literature began at the dinner 
given by his tenants to a cousin on the occasion 
of his coming of age. Though I had not attained 
my own majority, for some reason I was told off 
to propose the Press. I never shone as a speaker, 
and that was my maiden effort at public oratory. 
The toast was coupled with the name of the 
reporter of the county paper. Of course I tried 
the humorous line, and touched on a personal 
grievance — the bother there was in cutting the 
pages of books. He answered that if I had to cut 
up books like him, I would have better reason for 
grumbling. He had decidedly the best of it, but 
as Mrs. Gamp might have remarked, 'his words 
was prophecy.' Since then I have criticised in- 
numerable books, good, bad, and indifferent, and 
though the pleasure and pain have been pretty 
evenly balanced, I have waded through consider- 
able muddy water and endured more drudgery 
than was altogether agreeable. 

But years were to elapse before I took to the 
pen which was to give me so many pleasant 
memories and acquaintances — to introduce me to 

172 



LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 173 

so many valued friends. The only break was 
when I met one of the brightest of those friends 
in James Payn, when, as I have said, he was 
conducting Chamberss Jozirnal in Edinburgh. 
Afterwards we were brouorht into close and 
constant relations ; some of the most agreeable 
dinners I recollect were in Warrington Crescent, 
where he always attracted lively company, and 
when he died the loss left an irreparable blank. 
There I heard Frith supplementing the amusing 
Reminiscences he published, and the present editor 
of Punch indulging in dry facetiae which capped a 
story or pointed a moral. Payn introduced me 
to his friend Horace Pym, another genial host, 
who, when he kept house in Harley Street, often 
tempted me to town for a night, more for the 
company than the admirable English fare. When 
he shifted his quarters to my neighbourhood in 
Kent, at the distance of a long and hilly drive, 
I saw less of him. Something of a bibliomaniac, 
like Heber or Scott he went in for sumptuous 
bindings, and nothing pleased him more than the 
gift of the manuscript of any book by a friend 
which had caught on with the public. He might 
have made a name in literature himself, had he 
not been preoccupied with more profitable busi- 
ness. His Memoir of Caroline Fox pleased 
George Smith so well, that he proposed to him 
to undertake the biography of Lord Beaconsfield ; 
it is one of the curiosities of literature that at 



174 DAYS OF THE PAST 

that time two leading firms were assured that they 
were to be intrusted with the immediate pub- 
Hcation. Payn, then editing the Cornkill, was 
the literary adviser of Smith and Elder. As he 
told me himself on that occasion, he tapped his 
magnificent chief on the shoulder, whispering, 
' Are you not getting rather deep in the thou- 
sands ? ' But Payn, except on a holiday in the 
Lake District, was never happy out of London or 
away from the Reform, where he had his regular 
afternoon rubber. Like Pym he never walked a 
yard when he could help it, or touched a fishing- 
rod or o-un. So ' our own romantic town ' with the 
biting winds which Louis Stevenson execrated had 
few charms for him. An indefatigable worker, 
Sundays and week-days, like his friend Trollope 
he could always come to time ; working still, when 
crippled and confined to his chair, he may be said 
to have dropped and died in harness. In those 
latter days the only time I saw his sweet nature 
rufiled was when he misunderstood one of my 
remarks. Trying to write with his gouty fingers, 
he was evidently in great pain, and I made some 
commonplace observation as to the worse ills to 
which humanity is subject. He fired up and said, 
' If you think I can find comfort in the sufferings of 
my fellow-creatures ' — which I did not mean at all. 
If after many idle years I fluked myself into a 
literary income, it is one of the wonderful instances 
of unmerited luck. When supplies are running 



LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 175 

short, taking to letters is naturally the resort of the 
destitute who have been trained to nothing, or have 
failed at everything they tried. One fine morning, 
the turning-point of my fortunes, I took a flying 
shot at an advertisement. I had seen the an- 
nouncement of a new Conservative weekly, the 
Imperial Review, with a hospitable invitation to 
contributors. I wrote to place my services at the 
editor's disposal, and suggested as subjects Turkey 
and America. Of Turkey I knew nothing more 
than I had picked up on a flying visit to Constan- 
tinople and sundry shooting-parties in the provinces; 
of America I knew nothing at all, but some Ameri- 
can question chanced to have cropped up just then. 
Both articles appeared as leaders in leaded type, 
and thenceforward my career was decided. The 
Revieiv was run by Cecil Raikes, member for 
Chester and afterwards Chairman of Committees. 
It came to a sudden stop, but it served his purpose 
and it answered mine. For a year or more it gave 
me capital practice, at the rate of an article or a 
couple of articles per week, and before the stoppage 
came which I feared and expected, I had been 
casting out sundry anchors to windward. 

I had no sort of claim on Leslie Stephen. I 
was introduced to him in Trinity Common room 
by two old travelling companions — Augustus Van- 
sittart, then Bursar of the College, and Hardy 
of Alpine fame, the first Englishman to climb 
the Finster Aarhorn. I had seen Stephen that 



176 DAYS OF THE PAST 

morning, with his tall, sinewy figure, going at a 
hand gallop along the banks of the Cam, cheering 
and coaching the Trinity boats. When Stephen 
promised, it meant generous performance. He 
gave kindly introductions forthwith to Cooke of the 
Saturday, and Frederick Greenwood of the Pall 
Mall — another good friend, of whom, as he is 
living, I have nothing more to say. Cooke had 
somewhat of a formidable reputation ; he was said 
to be fastidious and capricious in the choice of 
his contributors, and as the hansom cabman said 
of Forster, 'an harbitrary gent.' Indeed, any self- 
made man had reason to be proud of having recruited 
such a constellation of varied talent. It was the 
pride of the Saturday, like Thackeray's Pall Mall, 
to be written by gentlemen for gentlemen, and not 
a few of the gentlemen were predestined to exalted 
places in the Empire. Chief among the contri- 
butors was Lord Robert Cecil, who could handle 
his incisive and sarcastic pen with no fear 
of the impulsive slip which compromised him or 
the thought of 'putting his foot in it.' Faded 
daguerreotypes and primitive photographs hung 
round the inner room in the Albany, formed an 
interesting historical gallery of notorieties. For 
Beresford Hope, who launched the brilliantly 
successful venture, was lavish of money and could 
well afford it. The editing was sumptuously done. 
Editorial and business departments were sundered 
by the distance between the Albany and the 



LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 177 

Strand. In the Albany the editor was supposed 
to sit enthroned from 11 a.m. to 5 r.M. 
There the Articles were arranged in cosy talk. 
Ushered into Mr. Cooke's sanctum in some fear 
and trembling, I found a man in striking contrast 
to his surroundings. Nothing could be more 
suitably luxurious than the fittings of the room, 
with its Turkish carpets, its massive furnishing, and 
the usual literary litter of an editor's den. Cooke 
wore a long, loose rough coat, something between 
a shooting-jacket and a dressing-gown, and a 
slippered foot stretched out on a cushioned leg-rest 
was suggestive of gout. The veteran was then in 
decay and drawing near to his end, but the old fire 
flickered up when he began to talk, flashing out 
from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. I had heard 
him talked of as a terror, but nothing could be 
kinder than his reception. Had I been Lord Robert 
Cecil, Harcourt, Stephen, or Venables, he could 
not have discussed proposals more respectfully. 
It was a great relief when the first proof arrived, 
but I should have been far less cock-a-hoop had 
I known that the Saturday sent all manuscripts 
straight to Spottiswoode's, unless indeed they came 
from an absolute outsider. 

Almost immediately after that Cooke was gathered 
to his fathers, bequeathing his romantic Cornish 
home and the better part of his fortune to the 
family of his friend and patron. Had Beresford 
Hope not been born in the purple, or at least 

M 



178 DAYS OF THE PAST 

succeeded to the noble Bedgebury manor in the 
Weald, with its wide woodlands, remains of the 
Anderida forest where iron industries had antici- 
pated those of the north, he might himself have 
made a name in letters. As it was, he wrote some 
clever social novels, and I repeatedly urged him to 
try a historical romance, with the scenes in the 
historical surroundings of the family seat. Given 
to hospitality, his annual Greenwich dinner at the 
Trafalgar was a great help to his brilliant weekly. 
The editor took the chair, the proprietor sat on 
his right, and invitations were issued on a most 
catholic scale. Well and appropriately was the 
gathering fixed for a Saturday evening, for if the 
guests did justice to the cheer, work was impossible 
on the morrow. There you could absolutely trust 
the wines : the burgundy and the venerable port 
and amontillado came from the renowned cellars of 
Marshal Beresford, a noted bon vivant, who always 
kept a sumptuous table in the Peninsula, even when 
rank and file were on short commons. That 
legacy of the Marshal-Connoisseur had overflowed 
from the cellars at Bedgebury into the vaults of 
the Albany, and was far from exhausted when these 
premises were evacuated. At those Greenwich 
dinners there was mercifully no speechifying, and 
the grace was compressed in a couple of Latin 
words. The invitations were miscellaneous, for 
many specialists and men of note were in occasional 
relations with the Saturday. Lord Salisbury — as 



LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 179 

he had become — was sometimes seated next to his 
brother-in-law, and their nephews the Balfours, 
promising young politicians, were often present. 
Medicine was generally represented by Ouain, who 
was so keenly interested in literature and journalism 
that he would discuss them at length in consultation, 
oblivious of your ailments as of patients impatiently 
waiting in the anteroom ; and science by the aged 
Professor Owen in his black silk skull-cap. In the 
very last year of his life, I think, I travelled up 
with him in the railway carriage to Waterloo, when 
he left me with a cordial grasp of the hand. 

When Cooke departed, Harwood, his sub-editor, 
reigned in his stead. Never was editing more 
conscientiously done. Harwood came punctually 
to the receipt of custom ; he carried business back 
with him to St. John's Wood, and was never to be 
lured away by invitations to dinner. When he 
retired to Hastings, on a snug pension, it might 
have seemed that, with his occupation gone his life 
would be a blank. But he was a man of resource, 
and turned Cincinnatus among his cabbages, con- 
centrating his interests on a garden the size of a 
pocket-handkerchief. The amiable veteran had 
the satisfaction of feeling he had never made an 
enemy, and nothing gave him more pleasure than 
a visit from an old acquaintance and a chat over 
old days in the Albany. 

The Pall Mall, as Greenwood kindly reminded 
me in an encouraging letter when I had begun to 



i8o DAYS OF THE PAST 

contribute, came out every day, and there it had 
the pull of the Saturday. Those were happy times 
for the journalist who loved a long range and a 
free tether. Already I have passed Greenwood 
over in silence, but on reflection I must say that, 
with his versatile tastes and rare literary flair and 
discrimination, with perhaps a single exception he 
was the ablest editor I have ever known. Con- 
ducting simultaneously the Pall Mall and the 
Cornkill, his zealous look-out for rising talent 
carried him easily through a vast amount of 
drudgery. He could see at a glance what might 
be hoped of a novice. Nor did he confine himself 
merely to editing. Many of the political leaders 
came from his own pen, and there was no brighter 
or more sagacious literary critic, doing justice to 
talent wherever he found it, whether in history, 
philosophy, or a light society novel. 

The reading world owes a great debt of gratitude 
to the spirit and enterprise of the munificent pro- 
prietor. George Smith originated the brightest of 
evening papers, as he started the Cornkill under 
the auspices of Thackeray. He has left his 
monument in the Dictionary of National Biography; 
he floated Charlotte Bronte in the beginning of 
his career, and Mrs. Humphrey Ward towards its 
close. When he started the Pall Mall, with his 
strong publishing connection, he found powerful 
allies, eager to aid. The chief leader writers who 
shared the burden of the day with the editor were 



LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS i8i 

Fitzjames Stephen and Henry Sumner Maine. 
Stephen, a legist by profession, with a legal and 
logical intellect, was a journalist by predilection. He 
used to say he would rather represent Northumber- 
land Street than any constituency in the kingdom. 
Reluctantly he accepted a lucrative post in the East, 
but he hated Calcutta, never ceased to be home- 
sick, and when he took his welcome release, hurried 
home like a schoolboy for the holidays. A tele- 
gram from Southampton announcing his arrival to 
Northumberland Street, asked that next morning 
a boy should be sent as formerly for copy to his 
chambers in the Temple. The boy may have 
been sent, but in Stephen's absence Maine had 
stepped into his place as leading leader writer. 
His brother Leslie, and Matthew Arnold were 
also of the dei majores ; and among the irregulars 
who did excellent service were that very dubious 
character Grenville Murray, more admired than 
respected, with his double portion of genuine 
French esprit, and the eccentric Franco-Oriental, 
with the pseudonym of Azamut-Batuk, who amus- 
ingly satirised our manners and customs and 
launched rhyming philippics at our fogs and spleen. 
The Pall Mall originated the Occasional Notes. 
No one devoted himself to them more conscien- 
tiously than Maurice Drummond, the most genial of 
entertainers and delightful of companions. In the 
literary capacity he took himself very seriously, 
which was more than he did as head of a Government 



i82 DAYS OF THE PAST 

department, though he honestly believed himself 
the most hard-worked of officials. Regularly as 
clock-work he was to be found of an afternoon at 
The Travellers, skimming the morning papers and 
cogitating notes for next day. Always looking out 
for ' pegs/ he was admirably informed on many 
matters ; he knew most people in London who 
were worth knowing, and had a memory that ex- 
actly served his purpose. Like that of Scott, it 
retained all he wanted and dismissed the rest. He 
and his charming wife were the most hospitable 
of people. You never found them unprepared, 
if you looked them up of a summer evening at 
their coita-gG-orn^e at Frognal, where dinner was 
served at a table under a spreading tree in the 
garden. Du Maurier was a friend and a frequent 
guest ; Drummond's children, who inherited their 
mother's beauty, were the models for innumerable 
pictures in Punch, where they figured with the 
artist's favourite dog". 

George Smith, then or soon after, had a mansion 
hard by, on Hampstead hill, with sloping lawns 
and gardens looking over to Harrow. His garden 
parties were gatherings of the select, where you 
came across the noted littdrateurs who were 
familiars of Waterloo Place, or thirled, as they say 
in Scotland, to the CornhilL There was a bed- 
room in the Waterloo Place office, of which some 
of his familiars were free, when they cared to use 
it. Matthew Arnold slept there often, and Smith 



LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 183 

was good enough to place it at my disposal when 
I passed a night in town. On an evening after 
one of those garden parties, some of us remained 
for a scratch collation and had sat on talking till a 
late hour. I remember the occasion well, for it 
was then I made the acquaintance of George 
Meredith. I happened to say to my host that I 
was only leaving one roof of his for another, and 
that, as I wanted exercise, I meant to walk to 
his bed in Waterloo Place. To my satisfaction, 
Meredith, who was also a great pedestrian and 
in the vio-our of his strengrth, declared he would 
accompany me. That walk proved only the first 
of many with him, but seldom has the time passed 
more quickly, and as he warmed up in conversa- 
tion, he stepped out only too fast. He had much 
of the buoyant Gallic temperament, with a flow of 
esprit to the very finger tips ; mind and body 
seemed to be set on springs. As with the illus- 
trious authors of The Feast of Brougham and The 
Old Woman of Berkeley, I have always lamented 
that Meredith did not give himself more to lyric 
and ballad poetry. That night as we were striding 
along, some of the spirited snatches of verse in his 
* Legend of Cologne,' 

' The lark and the thrush and the blackbird, they taught me 
how to sing,' etc., 

were ringing in my ears, and I could not help 
quoting them. Naturally, my unmistakable ad- 
miration pleased him, and I know it was with 



i84 DAYS OF THE PAST 

regret and reluctance on one side that we separated 
at Piccadilly Circus. To my infinite pleasure, the 
acquaintance was to be renewed and improved. 
Shortly afterwards I took a house at Leatherhead, 
within an easy stroll of Burford Bridge, and many 
a pleasant walk we had afterwards, in the grounds 
of Norbury Park, sacred to memories of Fanny 
Burney, and in the adjacent lanes of the rich 
Surrey woodlands. Since then his rare genius has 
come slowly to be recognised ; after a tantalising 
and disheartening struggle he has scaled the 
heights of the literary Pisgah, and had the fortune, 
in the fulness of years, to descend into the Land 
of Promise. He has taken foremost rank as an 
English classic, but happily he survives and no 
more can be said. 

No one in habitual relations with the Pall Mall 
ever passed through Paris without looking up the 
Hon. Denis Bingham. From first to last, under 
the imperial regime, he was the journal's Paris 
correspondent : late in the afternoon, about the 
hour of absinthe — which he never tasted — he was 
to be found at the marble table behind an ink- 
stand, at one of the cafes on the Boulevards. 
For long the Cardinal was his house of call, 
though afterwards, for some reason he changed 
it. With his imperturbable coolness and Irish 
courage, he held to his post through both the 
sieges, seizing each opportunity of forwarding his 
letters, by balloon or underground rail. The 



LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 185 

balcony of his apartment in the Rue de Tilsit 
was seriously damaged by the cannonade from 
St. Cloud. I have a shell now, picked up in 
his salon, which he consigned to me by Mr. 
Labouchere, when the ' Besieged Resident ' broke 
out. I fancy it must have crossed me en rotite, for 
I was in the place a day or two after the entry of 
the Crown Prince of Saxony under the Arc de 
Triomphe. Bingham's household bills were curi- 
osities. In the beginning he had been a good 
customer to the butcher of the Boulevard Hauss- 
man, paying fancy prices for beasts from the 
Jardins d'Acclimatation and des Plantes — elephant, 
rhinoceros, kangaroo, and all manner of outlandish 
animals. Then when supplies and cash ran short, 
he had been reduced to short commons. By way 
of souvenir he had kept some scraps of the 
abominable black bread, for which Marie, his 
good-humoured little bonne, had waited for hours, 
morning after morning, in the queue before the 
doors of the Mairie. In the siege of the 
Commune he ran serious danger. The Commune, 
in its truculent censorship, kept close watch on 
his proceedings, but showed him a certain con- 
sideration. It was perilous work to carry his 
letters personally from the Arc de Triomphe to 
the Gare du Nord, whence they were to be 
smuggled ; and in the storm and slaughter follow- 
ing the entry of the Versailles troops, he was shut 
up for four and twenty hours in a house that was 



i86 DAYS OF THE PAST 

bombarded by both sides impartially. Perhaps 
he owed something of his immunity to his relations 
with Rossel, for whom he had a sincere regard. 
Had Rossel not mislaid Bingham's visiting-card 
with the address, he might have found safety 
under his roof. On short commons in the first 
siege, he came near starvation in the second. 
The infraction of a cupboard in a house confided 
to his charge by a friend, gave him a luxurious 
Christmas dinner, which he shared hospitably with 
his special chum, Hely Bowes of the Standard 
and other journalistic confreres. 

Laurence Oliphant was Times correspondent in 
Paris after the German siege and when the Ver- 
sailles troops were being held at bay by the 
Commune. Off and on, I had known Oliphant 
for long. I met him first when dining in Edin- 
burgh with Norman Macpherson, afterwards pro- 
fessor of Scots law. Oliphant, then a boyish- 
looking figure, had just returned from his trip to 
Nepaul with Jung Bahadur. He had cast that 
magnetic spell of his over the astute and seem- 
ingly impassive Oriental, and with his wonderful 
adaptability had become thoroughly at home with 
him. As his friend Walter Pollock used to say, 
' Laurie would wile the bird off the bush.' He stole 
the conversation, rather than engrossed it, and his 
sparkling narrative, with the vivid pictures of 
Nepaulese manners and the march through the 
gloomy Terai was a thing to be remembered. 



LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 187 

Oliphant might have been anything he pleased, 
but he lacked ballast, persistence, and concentra- 
tion of purpose. His social gifts were a snare; 
his versatility was fatal ; and he was never really 
happy, except in action, excitement, or danger. 
Emphatically a bird of passage, and in some sort 
in his early life a stormy petrel, wherever there 
was trouble he was skimming the waves, shaking 
the spray from his wings in sheer enjoyment of 
the tempest. He was the more plucky that he 
was a fatalist and a predestinarian. He was not 
an ideal war correspondent, for he risked himself 
too freely. I have been told by a confrere, himself 
by no means overcautious, that even the Zouaves 
blamed the Englishman's rashness. And, by the 
way, as a good judge of courage, he always main- 
tained that the German dash and determination 
came short of that of the Americans in the Civil 
War. War risks he was ready to encounter, but 
he told me his nerves were never more severely 
tried than when he was on Times duty at Lyons, 
and attending a great socialistic meeting. Per- 
fidious England was bitterly denounced, when the 
rumour somehow got about that a spy of the Times 
was present. The rabid mob were on their legs 
to hunt him out, when Oliphant jumped up with 
the others, and with his staunch friend Leroy 
Beaulieu began looking everywhere below the 
benches. Needless to say, he did not find the 
man he was hunting: for. 



i88 DAYS OF THE PAST 

After the German siege, Oliphant had an 
apartment in the Champs Elysees, where his 
mother kept house for him. There I was pre- 
sented to the charming and accompHshed girl to 
whom he was engaged ; and both mother and wife 
shared his chequered fortunes when his strong but 
mystical intellect succumbed to the influence of 
the American prophet. It was said that those 
refined ladies took their places at the washtub, and 
certainly Laurence hawked oranges on railway 
platforms, when his talents might have been 
turned to more lucrative account. The odd 
thing was that on his flying visits of Europe, he 
was still the quick-witted man of the world, the 
acute critic of contemporary politics. At Hom- 
bourg the Prince of Wales used to consult him 
on the morning letters. Frank as he was in his 
Scientific Religion and other writings, there were 
only one or two of his friends with whom he cared 
to discuss his religious views, and I was never one 
of them. Yet I remember one night at a little 
dinner of four I gave at the Wyndham, we drew 
him to the verge of the delicate ground, when in 
an unlucky moment I exchanged a glance with 
William Blackwood. Oliphant intercepted it, and 
shut up like an oyster. 

Then, in the Champs Elysees, forenoon or after- 
noon, a coupd was always in waiting at the door. 
He was perpetually dashing about to the Quai 
D'Orsay or other places, hunting up the informa- 



LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 189 

tion he generally secured. So he had no time to 
devote to the animated debates and scandalous 
scenes in the Assembly, which was in session at 
Versailles. He was then congratulating himself on 
the discovery of Blowitz, the most noteworthy of 
the treasure -troves, he said, among the submerged 
he had brought to the surface, and he said it long 
before that eentleman had attained a world-wide 
celebrity. He declared that Blowitz's memory was 
equal to the most exact shorthand reporting, and 
that as an interviewer he could mimic the accents 
and dramatise the gestures of the interviewed. 
When I next forgathered with him, it was im- 
mediately before the outbreak of the Commune, 
when he had discarded silken top hat and frock 
coat, and was bustling about the disturbed quarters 
of Paris in flexible felt and a suit of tweeds. I 
had been waiting for the convulsion that had never 
come off, and was waxing impatient. He warned 
me that I would not have to wait much longer, but 
one day, after inspecting the guns peacefully parked 
on the heights of Montmartre I went off carrying 
one of his packets to his agent at Calais. Two 
days afterwards the guns were seized by the 
insurgents. 

Shortly after that his connection with the Times 
came to an abrupt termination. When I left him, 
I believe he already had his marching orders from 
the prophet, which he had disregarded. Then 
followed a more peremptory summons from the 



I90 DAYS OF THE PAST 

seer, announcing a sign. The sign came on the 
day of the absurd demonstration of the unarmed 
pacificators in the Rue de la Paix, and he accepted 
it, when, in a shower of rifle balls, he was dragging 
the wounded under shelter in the doorway of 
Blount, the consul and banker. So much I heard 
from himself, and I heard more from Mowbray 
Morris. He went straightway to his quarters at 
the Chatham, packed his portmanteau and hurried 
off to London. It was the very moment when a 
special correspondent should have stuck to his 
post, and never did a Times correspondent give 
himself French leave in more summary fashion. 
But Oliphant, as a rara avis, was a privileged person, 
and the journal paid him the exceptional compliment 
of condoning the offence and employing him again. 
A rara avis and bird of passage, there was no 
calculating his migrations. One month he was at 
Haifa or in his lodge upon Carmel, looking down, 
as he said, on the valley where Elijah slew the 
prophets of Baal, and settling disputes as a Syrian 
J. P. between the farmers and the vine dressers. 
Then a fancy would take him for the pavements of 
Pall Mall, and some fine morning he would stroll 
into the Athenaeum, and shake hands as if you had 
dined together the evening before. I never met 
a man who had done so much, and who might 
have done so much more, who had so little self- 
assumption. He would ask an acquaintance if he 
might lunch with him as if he were receiving a 



LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 191 

favour, instead of bringing inexhaustible stores of 
reminiscence and pointed anecdote. Now that he 
is gone I feel the old effort of disengaging myself 
from his company. If I gave memory the rein 
there might be matter for a volume. 

Talking of Oliphant suggests my own connection 
with the Times, though it was to ' Blackwood ' 
I was indebted for familiarity with him. I was 
fortunate enough to have the friendship of successive 
editors, and of all the editors I knew, Delane was 
the most remarkable. His intuitive perception, 
his sagacious prescience of the tendency of events, 
were only paralleled by his prompt decision. A 
message coming in at the last moment, pregnant 
with issues in foreign politics or home affairs, never 
found him unready. On one momentous occasion 
I had expressed my wonder and admiration to his 
brother-in-law, Mowbray Morris, for although 
utterly taken by surprise a few days had justified 
his action. Morris's answer was, 'It is those 
flashes of sure intuition that save him ; if he were 
in the habit of hesitating he would often be 
blundering.' Yet he was no more infallible than 
other men, and sometimes when he waited his 
sagacity failed him. There was a notable instance 
when he was against the marriage of the Princess 
Royal, though even then he was not altogether 
mistaken, for the consequences he predicted were 
in some measure realised by the strained relations 
of her Royal Highness with the autocratic chan- 



192 DAYS OF THE PAST 

cellor, who resented, and sometimes in the most 
offensive language, feminine influence in business 
of state. 

Like Wellington and all brilliant commanders 
he had a contempt for any feebleness of moral 
fibre. The editorship was offered him at the age 
of twenty-four — the mantle of Chatham was falling 
on the shoulders of the younger Pitt — and I re- 
member when we were having a quiet talk in 
Serjeants' Inn, asking if it did not shake his 
courage. ' Not a bit of it,' was the reply ; ' what I 
dislike about you young fellows is, that you all 
shrink from responsibility.' Precisely what Wel- 
lington said, somewhat unjustly, of his subordinates 
in the Peninsula. Nor was there any boastful self- 
assertion involved, for I have heard the story from 
his life-long friend, John Blackwood. The youths 
were living together in St. James's Square. One 
morning Delane burst into their room, exclaiming, 
' By God, John, what do you think has happened ? 
I am editor of the Times' Forthwith he buckled to 
the arduous task, and from the first Printing House 
Square acknowledged the master. 

It is not easy for outsiders to estimate the 
responsibilities he shouldered so lightly. The 
youth had inherited the traditions of an immense 
though occult power. The Times had unseated 
domineering ministers, had shaken strong cabinets, 
had made continental ministers tremble. Under 
the rdgime of the citizen king, the French foreign 



LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 193 

minister had tampered with the transmission of 
Times despatches. Promptly, and regardless of 
expense, the Times accepted the challenge, and the 
French cabinet had the worse in the war. Much 
had been happening to increase the power of the 
Press. There had been a reduction of the stamp 
duty and the advertisement tax, and the circulation 
of the papers, increasing by leaps and bounds, had 
awakened the intelligent interest of the masses. 
We hear in the Greville Memoirs of Lord Durham 
dropping in upon Barnes to complain of articles 
which had stung King Leopold and embarrassed 
the British ministry. Apropos of communications 
between the Times and Wellington touching the 
revelation of Cabinet secrets, Lyndhurst had ex- 
claimed in a burst of annoyance, ' Why, Barnes is 
the most powerful man in the country!' In the 
same year Peel, the most reserved and discreet of 
statesmen, wrote effusively thanking the editor for 
* his powerful support.' Such was the responsibility 
the youth manfully took over from an accomplished 
veteran, versed in intrigue, callous to flattery, and 
hardened to strife. 

He picked his subordinates well, and had a sure 
eye for the qualities which make the popular 
journalist. Asked for help with the authorities at 
the Colonial Office by a future Colonial governor, 
Sir Frederick Broome, he tapped his ink-bottle, 
saying, ' You have your fortune here if you stay 
with me,' and for years he kept a valued con- 

N 



194 DAYS OF THE PAST 

tributor who did excellent work on important 
missions. Broome subsequently went as Colonial 
Secretary to Natal, with the editor's free consent 
and recommendation. But Delane naturally re- 
sented being left in the lurch, or unceremoniously 
thrown over for a better thing. One of his leader- 
writers, a man whom he greatly appreciated, 
and a charming convive, accepted an important 
governorship without giving warning or coming to 
a satisfactory explanation. He proved somewhat 
of a failure in the new sphere of action, and came 
back to find the gates of Printing House Square 
locked and barred. These men were only two 
of many who had served their apprenticeship to 
statecraft at home and abroad under Delane. 

Personally, he did the day's work in Serjeants' 
Inn within easy reach of the office. The door 
was guarded by his confidential servant, a smooth- 
spoken and gentlemanly Cerberus, who knew 
habitual callers well ; and admission may have 
rather depended on the master's mood than on the 
urgency of the incessant preoccupations. But an in- 
terview, and a very leisurely one, was assured when 
the visitor was fresh from foreign parts, especi- 
ally when he had returned from a Times mission. 
For Delane, who was deeply versed in foreign 
politics, was the most many-sided of men. When 
he gave himself a breathing on the Continent for 
a brief holiday, the goose-fair in the Vienna Prater 
or the morning market in picturesque Bamberg, 



LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 195 

interested him as much as the details of some 
secret treaty being manipulated between Paris 
and Berlin. My old acquaintance, General Eber, 
ex-insurgent, ex-lieutenant of Garibaldi, member 
of the Hungarian Diet, Times correspondent at 
Vienna, was one of his favourite travelling com- 
panions, and Eber used to say that in all his 
experience he never met any one with so universal 
an interest in things, great and small. Necessarily 
a late sleeper in London, abroad he was an early 
riser, and liked nothing more than the morning 
stroll about the streets of some quaint old German 
city. He had a great predilection for Mayence, 
where he put up at the Angleterre, a capital house 
looking out on the river, but with a noisy thorough- 
fare in front and a darksome lane behind. The 
landlord was his sworn friend, and boasted a 
vintage of Feuerberger to which Delane directed 
my special attention. He always believed in good 
holidays, both for himself and the members of his 
staff. But as he grew older he was less inclined 
to ramble, and when he found himself in congenial 
quarters he was loath to leave them. One autumn 
he went to Scotland ' for a round of visits.' When 
he came back I asked where he had passed his 
time, and he had to own that he went straight to 
Dunrobin, where he was made so comfortable that 
he never stirred. In Dunrobin he delighted, but 
on another occasion his visit there was brought to 
an abrupt termination. He gave his trusted leader- 



196 DAYS OF THE PAST 

writers a loose rein, but sometimes as strong men, 
with pronounced views on burning political ques- 
tions, conscience and conviction would make them 
jib or kick over the traces. One fine morning in 
Sutherlandshire, when the editor opened his Times, 
he was shocked and startled. It was on the eve 
of the war between Russia and Turkey ; the 
writer's sympathies were strongly Russian, and 
he had gone far towards committing the paper. 
Delane took the first train to town to put things 
straight before the error was irretrievable. But 
he knew a good contributor when he had one, and 
the delinquent, with light reproof, was put on to 
less thorny subjects. 

Probably he never wrote a line for his own 
paper, though he played on its manifold keys with 
the touch of an accomplished artist. The most 
ready of note writers, he seemed to be always 
scribbling, and no one ever despatched multi- 
farious business more promptly or pointedly. Half 
a dozen lines smeared across a page of notepaper 
with a broad-pointed quill indicated the lines of 
an important article, and gave assurance of safe 
guidance. But as I happen to know, there is a 
single document extant, in which he virtually 
embodied a leader in a succession of blue paper 
slips. That shows how strongly he was excited 
over the formation of Disraeli's Ministry in 1874. 
Ordinarily he took the most sensational incidents 
with the most imperturbable calm, even when the 



LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 197 

credit of the journal was in question ; and of that 
I could give various examples from personal 
experience. Reviewing was generally left to the 
writer's discretion, but as to important political 
works, such as Campbell's Lives of Brottgham and 
Lyndktirsty or Gladstone's Fragment of Political 
AtUobiography, he would take infinite trouble, even 
to arranging a dinner of experts that the writer 
might be authoritatively primed. 

He bore his honours meekly, though, indeed, 
with his recognised autocracy, he had slight 
inducement to assert himself. He dressed care- 
fully, though he never sacrificed to the Graces. 
But few statesmen or politicians drew more notice 
in Rotten Row than the unobtrusive rider on the 
neat black cob. It was not with the butterflies of 
fashion that he exchanged greetings, but with men 
and women of light and leading. It was a rare 
experience to have his arm up St. James's Street 
and Piccadilly in the season, when the stream of 
members was setting of a summer afternoon 
towards the House, and to listen to his amusing- 
commentary of anecdote and reminiscence, inter- 
spersed with incisive sketches of characters and 
careers, suggested by passing personalities. As 
no one had greater regard for a formidable 
political opponent, so no one had less respect 
for the dilettante diplomatist who had climbed to 
high place through influential connections. Once, 
coming back from the Continent, I reported some 



198 DAYS OF THE PAST 

conversations with our ambassador at one of the 
great capitals. I was flattered, and rather vain of 
them, for the big man's condescension and cham- 
pagne had made a highly favourable impression. 
Delane listened and abruptly changed the subject. 
' Oh, that old woman. . . . Yes, she 's always 
making love to us, and can be very civil when she 
likes ! ' 

His eclipse was gradual and for a time veiled to 
the public. Worn with arduous work and in- 
cessant strain, at last the strong constitution gave 
way. His good friend Sir Richard Quain did all 
that science could do to prolong a valuable life ; 
but retirement became inevitable, though doubtless 
retirement, with the loss of stimulus, accelerated 
collapse. Nor was the final disappearance of this 
remarkable man from the society he had instructed, 
guided, and adorned long to be delayed. 

Delane, while directing the Times, was deeply 
indebted to the co-operation of his brother-in-law, 
the manager. He and Mowbray Morris invariably 
worked together on the most confidential terms, 
and Morris was something more than a sleeping 
partner in the editorship. General Eber used to 
say that when Delane got too engrossed in political 
topics of the day, Morris was always there to tap 
him on the shoulder with a reminder. He might 
have filled the role of editor as well as that of 
manager, and he knew it. At the outbreak of the 
Franco- German war, Delane chanced to be abroad, 



LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 199 

and I remarked casually that he would be annoyed 
at his absence from the helm at so critical a 
moment. Morris rejoined, rather tartly, ' Do you 
think then that our readers will know he s away ? ' 
Like all the men who have had a voice in the 
policy of the great journal, he identified its honour 
with his own. To touch the Times was to touch 
himself. He used to pride himself on having, for 
the first time, put the foreign correspondence on a 
business-like footing in accordance with modern 
demands. The world had been moving since 
Crabbe Robinson went to Hamburg from Print- 
ing House Square to furnish letters as he found 
opportunities, based upon rumours rather than 
facts. Yet, like his brother-in-law, when he 
indulged in a brief outing, he loved to leave the 
Square behind. He used to say that when he 
could not keep his incognito, nothing worried him 
more than the attentions of obsequious waiters, 
who would smooth out the Times on his table. 
He was a man of imposing presence, with a dignity 
befitting his position. As Power to Power, he was 
indignant with the Germans, when they refused to 
receive his correspondents in their camps. * But 
we have plenty of money in the treasury, and 
the public shall be informed all the same.' An 
exception was afterwards made in favour of 
Russell, on King William's personal guarantee, 
and Morris was soothed. But his indignation was 
roused again, when Russell, with his bold criticism 



200 DAYS OF THE PAST 

and inquiring mind, was cold-shouldered by the 
statesmen and generals at Versailles. ' Yet they 
know well we are recording history for them, and 
transmitting their names and fame to posterity.' If 
Delane broke down slowly, Morris, to all appear- 
ance, went with a crash. Two or three years 
before he had lost 2.fidus Achates, a sort of humble 
secretary, whose intimate knowledge of details 
saved him an infinity of trouble. The man died 
suddenly ; his loss was felt in every way, and I 
have always thought his master took it as an 
ominous warning. 



CHAPTER XI 

MORE LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 

There was much wild speculation as to Delane's 
successor. More than one member of the staff 
was named as being in the running, and gossip 
insisted with great confidence that the mantle was 
to light on the shoulders of a distinguished Govern- 
ment official. The knowing ones were all wrong ; 
no one named the winner, and the decision came 
as a surprise. One evening when dining with 
Mr. Stebbing — he had virtually edited the paper 
in Delane's decline — I made the acquaintance of 
Mr. Chenery, an eminent Orientalist, Professor of 
Arabic at Oxford, and one of Delane's most valued 
collaborators. That evening was the beginning of 
a fast friendship, prematurely ended to my bitter 
regret. We walked together from Russell Square 
to Oxford Circus, and stood talking for some time 
under the lamps, before we shook hands. As 
Chenery told me afterwards, ' that evening I had 
my commission in my pocket.' In many respects 
he was admirably equipped. A fluent linguist, he 
was versed in foreign politics, and had discussed 
them in innumerable articles. He had a wide 
literary and scientific connection ; he laid himself 

201 



202 DAYS OF THE PAST 

out to secure the assistance of specialists, and 
as he remarked complacently a few years later, 
he might pride himself on the number of his ac- 
complished contributors. The advertisements, he 
added, were then at high-water mark, a proof of 
the steady popularity of the paper. Yet he could 
scarcely be called a popular editor, and through the 
Parliamentary session, even more than Delane, he 
was absorbed in politics, to the neglect of literature 
and lighter matters. Moreover he had taken to 
the leadership too late in life, and the burden of 
daily care weighed heavily upon him. The most 
charming of companions in a quiet way, he had 
not his predecessor's social adaptability. But the 
editor of the Times must entertain, and no man was 
more inclined to be hospitable. He was a cul- 
tured gourmet besides, and had a delicate taste in 
vintages. At his house in Norfolk Crescent, and 
afterwards when he moved into Delane's quarters 
in Serjeants' Inn, you were sure to find yourself 
among celebrities or in elevating company, though 
the host listened, rather than led the talk. There 
were statesmen, politicians, travellers, and scientists ; 
there were cultured soldiers who have since made 
themselves famous, and officials of the Foreign or 
Colonial Offices, who have become ambassadors, 
ministers, satraps of provinces — Chenery could pick 
and choose. But though that part of his duties 
was the reverse of disagreeable, he was never more 
happy than when at the table in the north-east 



MORE RECOLLECTIONS 203 

corner of the Athenaeum dining-room, with his 
habitual cronies, reinforced by casual arrivals. 
Hayward, who in his later years seldom cared to 
dress and dine out, was a regular member of the 
little party. There I have heard Forster relate 
some of his anxious experiences as Irish Secretary, 
when he narrowly escaped the fate of Lord Frede- 
rick Cavendish. He little knew that his most 
providential escape was on the very evening when 
he left Ireland behind him. The agents of a gang 
of assassins were on the watch at Westland Row, 
ready to communicate with their principals at 
Kingston. But Forster, as it chanced, had gone 
down before to dine quietly in the Kingston Hotel, 
and slipped unobserved on board the steamer at 
the last moment. 

In that select company of the corner were often 
to be found Lord Monk and another brilliant Irish- 
man, Sir William Gregory, who had made his 
political d^but by boldly facing the Liberator on 
the Dublin hustings, and who had attained to the 
blue ribbon of the Colonial Office as Governor of 
Ceylon. A warm-hearted Irishman he was, and a 
staunch friend. The only time there was any bitter- 
ness between us was when I impeached the hospi- 
tality of Sir Philip Crampton, our ambassador in 
Madrid, who always kept open house for Gregory. 
It was in that corner Sir Robert Morier commented 
one evening on the penny-wise policy of the Foreign 
Office, in refusing to ratify his bargain with the 



204 DAYS OF THE PAST 

Portuguese Government for the purchase of Lorenzo 
Marquez for some £^o,ooo. We had reason to 
remember his words of wisdom when we went to 
war with the Boers. 

Kinglake and Hayward, habitual convives, though 
not always the most talkative, were the radiating 
lights. The best of friends, they delighted in sly 
digs at each other, and the subtle challenge was 
readily accepted. When they got on their reminis- 
cences, they were like rival gamecocks, and the 
rush of social and political anecdote was incessant. 
The historian of the Crimean War had been the 
arbiter of many heated disputes and the Rhada- 
manthus of challenged reputations ; I happen to 
know that men in the highest positions had stooped 
to depths of servility in courting him. He weighed 
his judgments as deliberately as he wrote his his- 
tory. One day I had dropped in upon him in his 
rooms looking out on Hyde Park ; the table, as 
usual, was piled with documents, and like Issachar, 
the strong ass was stooping between two sacks 
of papers. He was painfully mastering the Bala- 
klava case — Lucan against Cardigan. Grievous 
trouble he caused his publishers and their printers, 
with his perpetual rectifications of the narrative 
and corrections of the proofs. A kindly man, and 
specially genial to young literary aspirants, he 
dearly loved an epigrammatic sneer. One saying 
of his Sir Edward Hamley delighted to quote. 
Looking at Mr. Villiers, the veteran free-trader, 



MORE RECOLLECTIONS 205 

then father of the Commons, as VilHers stood con- 
templating the dinner carte, Kinglake remarked 
with his meditative drawl : ' A clever man, a very 
cl-ayver man, before he softened his brain by read- 
ing the newspapers.' With the sole exception of 
Sir Edward Bunbury — a very treasury of recollec- 
tions and miscellaneous knowledge of all kinds, 
when he could be drawn in a quiet tHe-a-tete over 
the dinner-table — Kinglake lingered on, the last of 
that company. It was sad to see him in his solitary 
seat, in the nook which had for so long been the 
centre of sociability ; to stand at the old man's 
shoulder and to speak to him loudly and in vain. 

Hay ward had gone some years before ; though 
close allies, they were great contrasts. Hayward, 
although he could make himself extremely agree- 
able, was acidulated and inclined to be cynical. He 
took fancies at first sight, and his prepossessions 
were as strong as his prejudices. I first met him at 
a dinner at Delane's, where George Venables put 
him on his mettle, and they set to capping stories 
and repartees, while the host looked on and laughed. 
Our next meeting was at Chenery's, where, seated 
next each other, we had much talk, and it was 
then I really made his acquaintance. On fine 
nights he always walked home to his rooms in St. 
James's Street or to the Athenaeum, and then, as 
with Meredith and Chenery, I had a happy oppor- 
tunity. We walked together from Norfolk Crescent 
to the club : I forget what subject had engrossed 



2o6 DAYS OF THE PAST 

us when we got into the drawing-room, but I know 
Hay ward was so animated when I had subsided 
into a chair, that he stepped gradually between my 
legs to bring it forcibly home to me. That was 
characteristic of the man, and the matter was pro- 
bably political. Though always a staunch supporter 
of Chenery's, he never quite forgave him for the 
independent line he took in editing. * I thought 
we could count upon him,' he once complained ; 
' I introduced him to Lady Waldegrave, and 

now ! ' Chenery, who cared nothing for the 

fashionable world, was not to be seduced by the 
blandishments of the sirens. To the last Hay- 
ward went on with literary work, though in an easy 
dilettante fashion by which his readers lost nothing. 
Latterly, as he told me, he confined himself to his 
four annual articles for the Quarterly and his old 
friend, Dr. Smith. He stuck to the Quarterly, 
although he had changed his politics, having taken 
his name off the Carlton many years before. Per- 
haps we may gather from his Art of Dining, that 
gastronomical considerations had something to do 
with that, for there he says that the once famous 
cookery at the Carlton was declining, and that of 
the Athenaeum coming on. Since then, he might 
have had reason to change his opinion. He was 
less finically fastidious about his proofs than King- 
lake, but he had a strong objection to his text or 
style being tampered with. I have seldom seen 
him more bitter than when he complained that in 



MORE RECOLLECTIONS 207 

the Cervantes which he had been writing for Black- 
wood's ' Foreign Classics,' the Edinburgh readers 
had been changing his 'shalls' into wills.' 

Chenery, like Delane, was fond of touring, and 
loved to take his recreation abroad on flying trips. 
He sought out objects of historical interest, but 
could amuse himself as well with the dolce far 
niente when nothing more exciting was to be had. 
He was a bon vivant and a connoisseur of the 
French cuisine. I had rooms one spring at the 
Brighton at Boulogne, where I was agreeably 
surprised by an early call. He had crossed by the 
night boat and was putting up at the Bains. The 
chef oi the Brighton was an artist, and Chenery 
thoroughly appreciated my daily breakfast of a 
sole fresh from the Channel with a single squeeze 
of lemon and a creamy omelette aux anchois. 
When he broached the object which had brought 
him over, he was somewhat disappointed, for 
much as I should have enjoyed it, I could not 
accompany him on a visit to the battlefields of 
Cressy and Agincourt. But he was soon resigned, 
and made himself perfectly happy in lounging 
on the pier and strolling about the historical 
neighbourhood. 

He ought to have been his own Paris corre- 
spondent ; and had such been his fortune, his days 
would have been prolonged. A Barbadian by 
birth, he was a Parisian by taste and inclinations, 
and life on the boulevards was genuine luxury 



2o8 DAYS OF THE PAST 

to him. His interests were various as his 
amusements. He was as much in his element 
when prowling about the bookstalls on the Ouai 
D'Orsay, or collating Arabic manuscripts in the 
National Library, as when breakfasting at Bre- 
bants, dining at Philippe's, or laughing in the 
stalls at a blood and thunder melodrama at the 
Porte St. Martin. For, on the whole, he preferred 
sensation or the humours of the Bouffes or the 
screaming and somewhat scandalous farces of the 
Palais Royal to the classical art of the Fran9ais. 
When the morning was specially fine, he was all 
on the alert for some excursion. One of our 
pleasantest was to St. Germain, where, on the 
terrace with the outlook on the forest, and over a 
recherchdX\\.\\& dinner in the Pavilion Henri Quatre, 
he became volubly eloquent on memories of the 
wars of religion and the shadowy court of the 
exiled Stuarts. Unfortunately, unlike Morris or 
Delane, he could never leave that weary paper 
of his behind him. Eagerly he tore the Times 
open, to smile or frown, as the case might be. 
The morning of a happy day at Fontainebleau was 
overcast by something absolutely trivial as to a 
pork corner at Chicago which could have affected 
no living soul except speculators immediately con- 
cerned. But the clouds passed with a forest drive, 
and Richard was himself again when we were being 
promenaded through the palace, with its wealth 
of tragical and pathetic associations. 



MORE RECOLLECTIONS 209 

Blowitz had then become a Power, and we saw 
a great deal of him. His principles may have 
sometimes been subordinated to his journalistic 
ambitions, but he was in strong sympathy with the 
Republican regime when he succeeded Hardman 
as recognised Times correspondent ; and assuredly 
no journalist had a keener ^^oXilxo^X flair or exerted 
greater political influence. He made no idle boast 
when he said in his Memoirs that he had saved 
France from a second and more disastrous in- 
vasion. His friend, Frederick Marshall/ wrote 
me in 1878 — he and Blowitz used to meet every 
morning — that they never went out for a stroll 
and cigar, without seeing the Prussians passing 
again under the Arc de Triomphe. So he was 
stirred to take decided action in the interests of 
peace. I had personal proof of the weight he 
carried with the French ministers. I had men- 
tioned casually to him that an English governess, 
in whom my family were interested, had married 
a French revenue officer, and was bored to death 
in dull quarters on the frontiers of Lorraine. A 
few weeks later that official was transferred to a 
lucrative post at Lille. I told Blowitz as a strange 
instance of human discontent, that the lady was no 
happier at Lille, where she objected to the murky 
atmosphere. The lady was promptly shifted to 
the sunnier climate of the Gironde. In still later 
days, the levee in his little antechamber was 

' Marshall died after this was written. 
O 



2IO DAYS OF THE PAST 

crowded, and he was then more difficult of access 
to outsiders'. He liked to give his busy brain 
some rest, or was absorbed in the pregnant medi- 
tations which flowed fast from his ready pen. 
Hurrying through Paris with a commission for 
some letters for the Times from the Riviera, I 
called to ask for political introductions to Nice. 
He snatched at my hand, said he was too hard at 
work thinking to talk, and scribbled off two lines 
on a couple of cards for the Prefet and the British 
Consul. From both the dignitaries I had all the 
assistance I could desire. Great was Blowitz's pride 
in the first and only journal, of which he would 
have said maxima pars fui. His dinner hour 
coincided with the Times delivery, and one even- 
ing, after a tete-a-tHe we had adjourned for coffee 
to his den. He opened the paper eagerly as if he 
had never seen it since Oliphant showed it him for 
the first time when offering an engagement. He 
spread it out voluptuously on the table, saw two 
columns of his telegraphed letter, clasped his 
hands, threw up his eyes, and ejaculated, * Isn't it 
beautiful ? ' 

Next to John Delane, there is no one to whom 
I have been more indebted, from the literary point 
of view, than John Blackwood. In all my relations 
with many editors, never did the element of strong 
personal attachment enter so largely as with him. 
Frank to a fault, you could always trust him, and 
when you had once won his friendly regard, it 



MORE RECOLLECTIONS 211 

never failed. As I knew from second-hand know- 
ledge, he would stand the trying financial strain on 
which so many fast friendships have made ship- 
wreck. A contributor for whom he had a special 
affection had an awkward habit of outrunning the 
constable. Once, as he told me, being excep- 
tionally hard up he bowed his pride to appeal to 
Blackwood. He put it playfully : he said that the 
greatest writers had always been in the habit of 
making their publishers their bankers, and he 
asked a very considerable advance on the faith of 
unearned increment. He had put it playfully, but 
he awaited the answer in fear and trembling ; for 
he dreaded a refusal, and the rupture, which he 
would have regretted far more. I saw the reply, 
and it was a model letter. There was a wise and 
well-deserved warning as to the imprudence of a 
young man discounting the future by exceeding a 
sufficient income. Then the sting was taken out 
of the kindly reproof by the enclosure of a cheque 
for the amount requested, with an intimation that 
future drafts of the kind might possibly be 
honoured. The editor knew his man, and knew 
that no form of remonstrance could be more 
effective. 

That was the genial charm of essential kindliness 
which bound men to him ; and slight bonds with 
longer acquaintance were forged into links of steel. 
I doubt if any editor ever knitted together in 
close fellowship so select a band of sworn brothers. 



212 DAYS OF THE PAST 

Though indeed that literary sociability had been 
the tradition of ' Maga ' since North, Tickler, and 
the Ettrick Shepherd held their high jinks in the 
blue parlour at Ambrose's. It was his business 
and pleasure to make his contributors acquainted 
with each other. He was accused, with some 
truth, of being neglectful of the communications 
of promising outsiders. He was a busy man, with 
lighter avocations and interests than his business 
concerns ; and unlike his friend Delane he never 
studied brevity in his letters. But no one in the 
inner ring could make such a plaint, and he ever 
incited them to fresh effort by judicious encourage- 
ment. The appreciative criticism of one contributor 
on an article was forwarded to another ; so when 
strangers met in Randolph Crescent or at Strath- 
tyrum, they came together on the footing of 
familiars. Not a few of my best friendships, I 
owe to introductions through ' Maga.' In playing 
his kindly role, Blackwood had exceptional advan- 
tages. The publisher and editor were doubled 
with the golfer and country gentleman : he 
delighted in the practice of discriminating hos- 
pitality. At Strathtyrum he kept open house, and 
guests who took to their host and to each other 
could never wear out their welcome. An enthusi- 
astic golfer, before golfing had become a southern 
craze, he had found a mansion to his mind on 
the Bay of St. Andrews, the storm-tossed Biscay 
of Eastern Scotland. The old episcopal city with 



MORE RECOLLECTIONS 213 

its twin colleges had attractions alike for the 
antiquarian, the man of letters, the golfer, and 
the fox-hunter. Principals Tulloch and Shairp 
were magnets in themselves who attracted many 
writers of distinction. Tulloch, with his portly 
figure and beaming face, a frequent contributor 
to the Magazine, was the best type of the enlight- 
ened and advanced Presbyterian divine. He had 
a large spirit of toleration, and when he filled a 
pulpit he filled a church. On a Sunday evening I 
had dined with him in Randolph Crescent, when 
he was preaching a series of sermons in great St. 
George's to overflowing congregations. To my 
shame be it said, when Blackwood and he threw 
away their cigars to go, I made excuse. Tulloch 
spoke no word of reproach, but somehow there 
was something in his wistful look that put my 
conscience on hot coals for the rest of the evening. 
I repented again when shortly afterwards I heard 
him of a week-day in Westminster Abbey. We 
had lunched at the Athenaeum and he asked with 
hesitation whether I would care to come with him. 
I jumped at the offer and had no reason to regret 
it. He preached at Dean Stanley's request, and 
the face of the Dean was beaming through a dis- 
course on breaking down middle walls of partition, 
which reflected his own fervid liberality. 

So the visitors attracted by such men as Tulloch 
and Shairp always had welcome at Strathtyrum, 
where there was a piquant mixing of the social 



214 DAYS OF THE PAST 

elements. They met the golfers who were habituis 
of the jovial club at the headquarters of the ancient 
and royal game : hard-riding gentlemen who fol- 
lowed the Fife hounds, hunted by Anstruther 
Thomson, the heavy-weight, who, like Asheton 
Smith, had learned how to fall soft, and had made 
a brilliant reputation in the shires, having hunted 
with every pack in the islands ; lights of the Par- 
liament House ; African and Indian travellers, 
popular novelists, soldiers and seamen. The 
editor loved to oscillate between town and country 
when St. Andrews was less accessible than now ; 
but there was one grand advantage of the sojourns 
in the country — the leisure gave ample opportunity 
for discussion and direction. On the round of the 
links or the chat in the smoking-room, the author 
could draw on the editor's experiences, and the 
editor could thrash out some thorny political 
question or excite himself over the primeurs of an 
explorer's daring adventures. It was at Strath- 
tyrum that Speke wrote his Nile travels, or at least 
licked them into form and shape. It was there that 
Laurence Lockhart — it was said maliciously that 
when he and the editor got together business came 
to a standstill — secluded himself for three days to 
throw off the Volunteers of Strathkineham^ founded 
on reminiscences of his own, and over which the 
editor shouted. It was there that the indefatig- 
able Mrs. Oliphant, a frequent guest, excited her 
experienced host's surprise by the amount of work 



MORE RECOLLECTIONS 215 

she accomplished, when, like Scott at Abbotsford, 
she seemed to be always idling. Many other 
literary memories associate themselves with the 
house which will never see such gatherings again. 

There were few things I looked forward to with 
greater pleasure than Blackwood's annual visit to 
London. He came with a breath of invigorating 
air from the north, and the exuberance of his quiet 
enjoyment was contagious. Neither painting nor 
photography could hit off the face when he met 
you ; the twinkle in his eye ; the wrinkles on the 
forehead, implying the reverse of care ; the smiles 
that flickered round the corners of the mouth. See 
him sitting face to face with some valued crony 
like Hamley, and they reminded you of two 
amiable dogs, getting ready for a game at romps. 
Whether he had quartered himself at the Burling- 
ton Hotel or in Arlington Street, where * Henry 
understood and anticipated his wants, there was 
often a small muster at breakfast and almost invari- 
ably at luncheon. Like the snail travelling with 
his house, he carried a workshop about with him, 
and the side-tables were strewed with books and 
pamphlets, proofs, and articles. Almost always 
there was a half-finished letter at his elbow, for 
he was a leisurely correspondent of the Horace 
Walpole school. But, like the Ettrick Shepherd, 
who found any excuse fair enough for a caulker, he 
found any excuse fair enough to throw down the 
pen. Some of these off-hand meetings were, as 



2i6 DAYS OF THE PAST 

Laidlaw said of the night with Scott and Davy, 
'most superior occasions.' I remember Chesney 
dropping in on the first flush of the success of 
the Battle of Dorking, when pubHsher and author 
chuckled over the exchange of congfratulations. 
And I remember the glorification over the first 
instalment of Middlemarck, and the pride with 
which an early copy was handed to me for the 
solace of a railway journey. With good reason he 
associated himself with the triumphs of his proteges. 
Few men had a keener eye for faults and beauties, 
when a piece of promising work was submitted to 
him in manuscript — for the beauties rather than 
the faults — and most of the affiliated were ready to 
acknowledge that they had profited by his shrewd 
counsels. 

There was nothing more enjoyable than a tete- 
a-tete dinner for one versed as I was in memories 
of the Magazine. The famous novelists he had 
enlisted or floated since he took up the reins 
suggested endless subjects — George Eliot, Lytton, 
Lever, Trollope, Mrs. Oliphant, Charles Reade, 
Laurence Oliphant, Blackmore, and many another. 
Most of them had been his guests ; he had gossiped 
with all, and had much to say about their idiosyn- 
crasies, their whims, and their methods of working. 
Nor was it only for sound business reasons that 
the ' Maga ' of that time enveloped some of her 
most brilliant contributors in mystery and care- 
fully guarded her secrets. The editor loved the 



MORE RECOLLECTIONS 217 

fun of listeninof to saoe oruesses or to random 
shots which often were wofully wide of the mark. 
The Parisians caused an exceptional sensation. 
So far as I know, no one attributed it to Lord 
Lytton, though the author oi Eicgene Aram, Zanoni, 
and My Novel could change his style and dress 
like any music hall topical singer. Many people 
gave it to Laurence Oliphant, from the Piccadilly- 
like social touches and the intimate knowledge of 
Parisian life. Blackwood would smile and say 
nothing. 

Like all publishers or astronomers, he had the 
ambition of discovering new stars, and sometimes, 
though seldom, his foresight failed him. Although 
he hesitated long, he hoped great things of the 
author of the 'Cheveley Novels,' who, I believe, 
has remained anonymous. The work, like the 
Comddie Humaine, was conceived on a vast scale, 
and the first instalment was floated in shilling 
monthly parts, folio size, with illustrations. He 
did me the honour of consulting me about the 
manuscript, and my impression was, that if the 
author showed no little dramatic talent, the blue 
fire was overdone, and the beginning was pitched 
in too high a key to be sustained. That seemed 
to be the opinion of the public, and the issue came 
to an abrupt termination. 

There was a grand parade of contributors when 
Mrs. Oliphant, on one of the editor's birthdays, 
gave a great picnic on Magna Charta Island. 



2i8 DAYS OF THE PAST 

The lady was then at the zenith of her popularity 
as a fluent and prolific novelist. Blackwood made 
a telling speech which surprised and fetched us all, 
with graceful allusions to the mistress of the revels. 
That bright summer day recalls some of his closest 
friends, with others, unavoidably absent, who were 
not forgotten in his speech. Then I made personal 
acquaintance with Blackmore. He got into the 
train at Clapham, appositely equipped with a 
superb bouquet of hot-house flowers as an offering 
to his hostess. Plain to simplicity in dress, and 
somewhat stolid of aspect, the author of Lorna 
Doone was not the man I had expected to see. 
I had corresponded with him before as to a 
critique of mine upon his semi-savage parsons of 
the Maid of Sker. I found him as unaffected in 
manner as in costume. We drifted into conversa- 
tion, and he good-naturedly gratified my curiosity 
as to the Doone Valley and the wild traditions of 
Exmoor. Then I could understand the inception 
and finished execution of that masterpiece of 
romantic realism. The gifts of imagination had 
not tempted the writer to dispense with the most 
conscientious study of scenes and authorities, 

Chesney had come down from the college on 
Cooper's Hill, and Hamley was there from the Staff 
College. No more notable representatives could 
have been found of the succession of soldier con- 
tributors who have been recruited for ' Maga ' since 
the day of O'Dogherty down to the campaigning in 



MORE RECOLLECTIONS 219 

South Africa and the Far East. Chesney never 
did anything by halves, though his interests were 
divided between arms and letters. In India he 
had spared neither toil nor trouble, and he always 
felt that his services as military secretary had been 
ignored or indifferently acknowledged, when he 
devoted his study to the scientific fortification of 
the North- Western Frontier. It was a case, as he 
considered, of a superior carrying off the honours. 
Chesney ran some brilliant novels through the 
Magazine, but, like many a novelist, he put his 
best work in his first. I know nothing more 
vividly descriptive of events of the Mutiny than 
the chapters on the siege in The Dilemma. As he 
told me, they were dashed off at red-hot speed. 

Of Hamley I speak with greater dififidence, 
for our close friendship may suggest doubts as to 
my impartiality. If his enmities were lasting, his 
friendships were deeper and as enduring ; he 
grappled his intimates to him with hooks of steel ; 
and the more intimately he was known, the more 
you admired the range of his powers and the readi- 
ness of his humour. To borrow an observation of 
Johnson on himself, it took a long time to travel 
over Hamley's mind. He was of more martial 
figure and sterner aspect than Chesney. In repose 
the face was stern, but when the heart was touched 
or the humour tickled, it would break into the 
smiles which seemed so natural to all who knew 
him. At that time the gallant chief of the Staff 



220 DAYS OF THE PAST 

College, the brilliant writer of poetry and fiction, of 
essays and war literature of European authority, 
was not under the shadow of a wrong which was 
never to be righted. No one admired him more 
than Chesney. A strong partisan but a capable 
judge, he declared that Hamley's treatment had 
been 'abominable — abominable!' If the Battle 
of Dorking carried Chesney to fame on a springtide 
of ephemeral popularity, I should say that ' Shake- 
speare's Funeral ' was Hamley's masterpiece, and 
as the theme was an Immortal, the charm is per- 
ennial. It gives the measure of the man's rare 
fancy and inspiration, for it shows he had much of 
Shakespeare's undefinable power of identifying 
himself with the most varied human types, of 
thinking their thoughts and speaking with their 
voices. He shone in the short story, sparkling 
with drollery. He only wrote a single novel, but 
the lightness of touch in Lady Lees's Widowhood 
made me often implore him for another of the 
same. He rather rose to the suggestion, but 
unfortunately it never took shape. 

Though habitually abstemious, he was a con- 
noisseur in cookery ; he liked a good dinner and 
detested indifferent wine. His cook at the Staff 
College was a cordon bleu, and he paid her high 
wages. One of the most lively dinners I remem- 
ber was when I met him by appointment one 
Christmas — of all days in the year — at the Athe- 
naeum, to pronounce on some canvas-back ducks, 



MORE RECOLLECTIONS 221 

sent him by an American friend. By the way, 
the refrigerated ducks were a failure as usual, 
but that signified nothing, for there was store of 
Christmas cheer in the deserted dining-room. The 
only other diner was Herbert Spencer. The ducks 
suggested America ; Hamley, in his youth, had 
served in Canada, and the philosopher, prompted 
by him, came out in a fashion that astounded us. 
He donned the dress of a Noel Guisard and 
went in for high jinks and drolleries. It was a 
novelty to hear Transatlantic manners, Red Indian 
customs, and the very habits of amorous Indian 
dogs discussed with the profundity of omniscience 
and the rollicking fun of a Toole. But Hamley 
had the rare endowment of dignified familiarity and 
the knack of ' drawing ' the reserved with an off- 
hand manner which never offended. As he would 
never have tolerated a shade of impertinence 
himself, so no one could have suspected him of 
intending a liberty. If he chaffed a learned pro- 
fessor or a grave divine over the club billiard 
table, they seemed flattered rather than otherwise ; 
possibly they were somewhat in dread of the 
sarcastic sting. The sting might be there, but he 
never stung in malice. He had the artist's pride 
in his literary work, and there never was a more 
conscientious workman. When Scott was pressing 
Canning for a Quarterly article, he begged him to 
'break the neck of it' by dining on a boiled 
chicken. That was Hamley's way. When pulling 



222 DAYS OF THE PAST 

himself together for an effort, he put the muzzle 
on, and then like Chesney he wrote at a white 
heat. He wrote from a well-stored mind, for 
he was always reading and reflecting. When 
the very legible manuscript was despatched, his 
thoughts were still with it, and even Kinglake 
scarcely gave more trouble to publishers and 
printers. If he worried others, he never spared 
himself. With some hesitation, and tempted per- 
haps by the ^200, he had arranged with Messrs. 
Seeley for a book on the Crimean War. Doubt- 
less the proposal was suggested by the admirable 
volume on the Sebastopol campaign, reprinted 
from Blackwood. The rough and unstudied letters 
from the camp, penned in the worst hardships of 
the winter investment, had been reprinted verbatim. 
Yet fifty years later they read as freshly as ever, 
and the facts had never been disputed. Drawing 
freely on his former work, the task he had under- 
taken would have been light. Preoccupied by his 
parliamentary duties, he hesitated. Friends advised 
that he might do so honourably, for the ' Letters ' 
were still authoritative and inimitably graphic 
and picturesque. But in his high conception of 
duty he put it aside. Each line of the later volume 
was rewritten. In a letter to me, Sir Archibald 
Alison pronounced it ' the most charming and able 
book that Hamley ever wrote . . . with all the 
breadth and justice of his deep military thought.' 
Among all the guests at Magna Charta Island, 



MORE RECOLLECTIONS 223 

perhaps no one would have been more missed by 
the editor than Laurence Lockhart. He was one 
of the two ' Lauries ' who were house-pets, the 
other being Laurence OHphant. Lockhart in his 
younger days was the incarnation of exuberant 
spirits and the delight of his jovial Highland 
regiment. But those who had known him long 
and well, loved and admired him most when he 
rose superior to heavy trouble, and was carrying 
a load of ill-health with placid heroism and 
cheerful resignation. I have been with him when 
he went for ' the cure,' which never cured him, to 
Schwalbach and Kissingen ; I have listened from 
the next room to the hacking cough that followed 
a broken night, and seen him at the springs and 
the breakfast table apparently in the brightest 
spirits. There never was a more buoyant or 
sunny temperament — in that he much resembled 
his brother, Sir William, Commander-in-Chief in 
India — and those high spirits of his overflowed in 
his maiden novel, Dotibles and Quits. The zest 
for fun, translated into dramatic performance, had 
sometimes landed him in awkward situations. He 
could get himself up to play a part like a Monsieur 
Lecocq or a Sherlock Holmes. His most perilous 
escapade was at Gibraltar, when the ensign, dressed 
as an admiral, called on the commandant and was 
embarrassed by an invitation to dinner. He fre- 
quently figured as an old general at London 
dinners, growling with a gruff voice over a 



224 DAYS OF THE PAST 

starched necktie ; and as a successful impostor 
must have a clever confederate, the confederate 
was Lady Charlotte Locker, the sister-in-law of 
Dean Stanley, and the first wife of Locker 
Lampson. Lockhart had a profound belief in 
Blackwood's literary judgment, but much mis- 
trusted his love of humour and his predilection for 
a joyous companion. ' Blackwood likes anything 
that makes him laugh,' he used to say, but he 
did not care to be admired in the role of the 
mountebank. He rose nearer to his aspirations 
in Fair to See ; and in Mine is Thine he could 
honestly congratulate himself on having ' fetched 
them,' as he confided to me one day in the gardens 
at Baden. The latter novel may have owed 
something of inspiration to having been penned 
on the very table at Ashestiel on which Scott had 
written Waverley. By the way, I have sometimes 
wondered whether I did not make a fatal mistake 
in not buying No. 39 Castle Street, as I had the 
chance of doing, when I went back to Edinburgh 
from continental wanderings to walk the Parlia- 
ment House. Fancy sitting down to write in the 
sanctum of the wizard, looking out on the very back- 
garden where Camp had been laid to rest! But 
then I had never dreamed of turning my thoughts 
to scribbling, and in the magician's glorious career 
there were no omens of success at the Bar. 



CHAPTER XII 

FRIENDS OF THE ATIIEN^iUM 

The Athenaeum is a mausoleum of memories ; 
a place haunted by the phantoms of good friends 
or bright acquaintances who have flitted away. 
It echoes with the familiar voices ; you see the 
spectres of the past in their familiar seats. Among 
those memories the club brings to my mind the 
Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews. With the 
death of Henry Reeve a portly figure disappeared. 
A martyr to gout, latterly he moved with measured 
steps, and the silver-headed stick was ever at his 
hand, even when presiding at his own dinner table. 
His was a noticeable face and not to be passed 
unregarded. The eye, with a dash of the dis- 
dainful, the full mouth and somewhat heavy jaw, 
all indicated character and determination. He 
was a strong man who loved his own way, and 
for the most part he had succeeded in getting it. 
When he took a liking, he was eminently com- 
panionable. Gout is no emollient of the temper, 
and when you drop in upon an elderly gentleman 
with a leg swathed in flannels, you are ready to 
make allowances. But some of the pleasantest 
hours of literary and political converse I have 

p 



226 DAYS OF THE PAST 

passed have been in calling upon Reeve when his 
enemy had laid him by the heels. He welcomed 
fresh breaths from the outer world ; and he was one 
of the few literary editors who from the catholicity 
of his likings kept himself abreast of all the litera- 
ture of the latest hour. His surroundings were 
in keeping, for the collections in his well-stored 
libraries were miscellaneous, and the volumes were 
handsomely bound. He did not, like the famous 
bibliomaniac Heber, buy in duplicate or triplicate, 
and his sorrow was that his books were divided. 
Half were in London, the other half in his Hamp- 
shire home at Christchurch. He did his best by 
separating them in some sort of classification, and 
the admirable collection of French memoirs was 
set aside for lighter reading in the country. No 
one had a shrewder flair in new books, or a surer 
instinct in pronouncing off-hand judgment. In 
him the Longmans lost an adviser on whom they 
absolutely relied. It was not only that in a few 
pregnant lines he could indicate the merits and 
shortcomings of a manuscript, but he would say 
shrewdly whether the book was likely to sell and 
how far it would hit off the taste of the hour. 
Arranging with his contributors, his ordinary rule 
was to ask if they had reviewed the book else- 
where. He feared repetitions, and hated richauffds. 
Nevertheless, in special cases, he would stretch a 
point, and he grudged what he considered a clever 
article, when it had gone astray and he had missed 



FRIENDS OF THE ATHENAEUM 227 

his chance by over-punctiliousness. Most editors 
worth their salt are on the search for rising talent. 
Reeve was platonically on the watch, simply because 
he was charmed by a book of talent, and rejoiced 
in the promise of the writer's future. 

Reeve died an octogenarian, in full intellectual 
vigour. Almost to the last he had written the 
political articles in his Review, In fact, foreign 
politics were his favourite study, and he had 
always been in closest touch with leading French 
and German Liberals. Cradled in literature he 
had been launched in politics as a lad. He 
sprung from an East Anglian literary stock, when 
Norwich was a centre of letters. He was sent 
abroad in his teens, with introductions from his 
aunt, Mrs. Austin, the second of the ' Three 
generations of Englishwomen.' He spoke French 
like a native, and wrote German so fluently and 
correctly, that for years he was a regular con- 
tributor to Prussian and Bavarian periodicals. 
Barely of age, he had been enlisted on the staff 
of the Times, and he has told me how very many 
thousands of pounds he had been paid for his 
labours. For forty years he had been autocrat of 
the Edinburgh ; but on accepting the appointment 
he had made it a stipulation that his connection 
with the Times should not determine. As editor 
of the great Whig organ and historical quarterly, 
he had exceptional qualifications, and not the least 
were his foreign connections. Cosmopolitan as he 



228 DAYS OF THE PAST 

was, his sympathies were French, and before the 
fall of the Empire he was ami de la maison at the 
Embassy in Albert Gate. Not that he was by 
any means a partisan of the Emperor. St. Hilaire, 
Thiers, Guizot, Victor Cousin, De Remusat, and 
De Broglie were among his habitual correspondents. 
Yet he never permitted the most intimate relations 
to influence his conduct ; and there is a letter from 
Mrs. Austin to M. St. Hilaire, deprecating his un- 
bridled indignation at an article by Reeve himself 
on the Suez Canal. For as to that Reeve agreed 
with Lord Palmerston, foreboding disastrous con- 
sequences to England. He was in constant 
intercourse with the Orleans princes, especially 
with the Due d'Aumale, who had submitted to 
him the Memoirs of the Condds for revision. The 
last of his many crossings of the Channel was on a 
visit to the Duke at Chantilly. He lunched often 
at the Athenseum, almost always in the upper 
corner, between fire and window, and invariably 
on a Sunday after service in the Temple. Then 
after a descent to the smoking-room, he would 
start on what he called his giro, a round of after- 
noon calls. Walking with Reeve up St. James's 
Street was like riding with Delane in Rotten Row. 
It was a perpetual lifting of the hat or waving of 
the hand. 

As Registrar of the Privy Council, he was in 
touch with Cabinet ministers, from whom, when 
the Liberals were in power, he was in the way of 



FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN/EUM 229 

obtaining early if not exclusive information. His 
friend Greville, the 'Cruncher,' Clerk of the 
Council, had paid him the handsome and lucrative 
compliment of bequeathing him the Memoirs in 
manuscript with carte blanche as to the editing. 
The legacy, though financially profitable, was per- 
haps prejudicial to his official career. The publica- 
tion of the memoirs relating to the reign of Queen 
Victoria, with their unreserved frankness and 
frequent revelations, naturally gave rise to heated 
discussions. They had the honour of a debate in 
the Commons, when the late Sir William Fraser, 
something of a snarler like the * Cruncher ' himself, 
was epigrammatically severe. I remember talking 
them over with Lord Houghton and with Delane. 
Lord Houghton thought that Reeve had done the 
delicate work with creditable discretion and tact. 
Delane said that if two or three pages had been 
cancelled there was nothing to which fair exception 
could be taken. I fancy Reeve cared little for 
unfriendly criticism. He had confidence in his 
own judgment, and was persuaded, moreover, that 
excessive suppression and mutilation would have 
been a betrayal of his trust. 

Dr. William Smith, the editor of the Quarterly, 
was, when I knew him, a benignant-looking old 
gentleman, albeit with something of a leonine 
aspect. Nevertheless there was much shrewdness 
in the face, and when he fixed you with his smiling 
eyes they searched you. 'The old doctor,' that 



230 DAYS OF THE PAST 

was his familiar appellation in Albemarle. Street, 
was very regular in his habits. The mornings 
were passed in his library in Westbourne Terrace, 
a spacious and luxurious apartment, with three 
lofty windows looking out on the little back-garden. 
In the north-western corner was his writing-table, 
with its handsome appointments. Each yard of 
the walls was padded with volumes in rich or 
severe bindings. Like Reeve or Lord Houghton 
at Fryston, his selections seemed to have been 
made from what was readable rather than abstruse. 
The room would have been a paradise for the 
omnivorous reader with carte blanche to range the 
shelves at will. Dr. Smith had as many irons in 
the fire as most folk, and was necessarily a busy 
man with a large correspondence. Yet it struck 
one pleasantly that he never objected to being 
interrupted, and he was certainly always ready to 
talk, especially when it was a question of some 
article that interested him. In those days there 
was more actual reviewing of individual books, 
and the editor was liberal in sending the con- 
tributor any volumes that bore upon the subject. 
In the afternoon his carriage was always to be 
seen drawn up before the door of No. 50; and 
so many standard works that he had edited were 
so constantly passing through the press, that he 
invariably found something to occupy him. When 
he left Albemarle Street, he was set down at the 
Athenaeum. He paid the penalty of advanced age. 



FRIENDS OF THE ATHENyEUM 231 

and latterly was much of an invalid. To the last, 
his cheerfulness never failed. Folkestone was a 
favourite resort of his as of mine, and many an 
instructive chat 1 have had with him as I walked 
alongside of his bathchair on the Lees. In his 
more active days he had known the neighbourhood 
well, and he was the most learned and intelligent 
of all directors to anything that was worth seeing 
within walkinor or driving- reach. It was at Folke- 
Stone that he was surprised by the announce- 
ment that Lord Salisbury had recommended him 
for a knighthood. Had he been consulted before- 
hand, he would have declined ; as it was he 
hesitated, but it was delicate and invidious to back 
out. So he accepted the honour and died Sir 
William. 

Albemarle Street had sustained a greater loss in 
the previous year by the death of John Murray, 
the second of the dynasty. No one would have 
suspected a few weeks before that the end was 
near. Seemingly in full vigour of his faculties, 
that death broke the last link with the grolden a^e 
of our literature in the first half of the nineteenth 
century. Murray's memories went back to Byron 
and Scott, Campbell, Crabbe, Coleridge, and 
Southey, who had all been his father's familiars. 
As a youth he had himself been a guest at Abbots- 
ford, when he impressed his host as a singularly 
favourable specimen of English education. Three 
remarkable events he remembered in especial. He 



232 DAYS OF THE PAST 

had been present at the burning of the Byron 
manuscripts in the Albemarle dining-room, by 
which, as Scott observes in his Journal, Tom 
Moore lost ^2000, through generous but some- 
what misplaced susceptibility. Gifford and Lord 
John Russell had pronounced them * in parts too 
gross for publication ' ; for Byron, as Scott ex- 
pressed it, ' embellished his amours and was le 
fanfaron de vices quil n avail pas.' As Murray said, 
the manuscripts might have been expurgated and 
the treasure preserved. Again, looking over the 
balustrades, he had seen the two lame poets — 
Byron and Scott — going down the stairs in close 
confabulation. And by a happy chance he had 
been present at the memorable theatrical banquet 
in the Waterloo Rooms in Edinburgh, when Scott 
confessed to the authorship of the novels. In a 
letter to his father he had given Scott's speech, 
almost verbatim, from memory. In the letter he 
records a literally dramatic incident. Scott had 
proposed the health of Mackay, who had played so 
inimitably the part of the Bailie. By the way, u 
I may be forgiven the digression, I have seen the 
veteran both in the Bailie and in Peter Peebles, 
and the latter role, with its grim but homely 
humour, struck me as the more masterly interpre- 
tation of the two. You shook with laughter 
through the scenes, and yet were suddenly sobered 
and saddened by the grotesque pathos, when Peter 
comes down from glorying in ' the height of earthly 



FRIENDS OF THE ATHENv^UM 233 

grandeur,' as the hero of ' a gangin' plea,' to sigh- 
ing over the missing the daily meal which came 
so regularly when he was a decent burgess ; and 
never was more humour thrown into a single 
sentence, than when he ejaculated to the Quaker, 
' The Lord mend your eyesight, neighbour, that 
disna ken grey hairs frae a tow wig.' But the 
mention of Mackay has carried me across from the 
Waterloo Rooms to the Theatre Royal, which used 
to confront them on what is now the site of the Post 
Office. The actor's health had been duly honoured, 
when there came a voice from the other end of the 
hall, * Ma conscience, if my father the Bailie ' (a slip 
for Deacon) ' had been alive to hear that my health 
had been proposed by the author of Waverley \ ' 

The standard works published by Murray are 
not to be numbered. To name a few of the 
authors, there were, Hallam, Lord Stanhope, 
Layard, Lord Campbell, Livingstone, Schliemann, 
Darwin, Dean Stanley, Smiles, Dean Milman, 
and Sir Henry Maine. We are indebted to him 
for the Speakers Cormnentmy and Sir William 
Smith's Dictionaries and volumes of reference. 
He had inherited the traditional liberality of 
the house. Once, under pecuniary pressure and 
against his advice, an author parted with the 
copyright of a manuscript for £^00. As the 
publisher had foreseen, the book had a sensational 
success, and the sale realised over ^3000. The 
author received a further cheque for ;^2000. Like 



234 DAYS OF THE PAST 

John Blackwood, Murray was seen at his best 
when presiding at his own table, and drawn on 
insensibly to indulge in recollections suggested by 
the genius loci. The portraits of the dead on the 
walls were still speaking — the once famous African 
travellers, Denham, Clapperton, and Lander, with 
Basil Hall, Barrow of the Admiralty, who aided 
Croker in editing the Quarterly after Gifford's 
death, and who caused Scott some anxiety by 
objecting to Lockhart's succession. Last but not 
the least was Lavengro, whose adventures had 
been in England, Ireland, Spain, and wild 
Wales. If the men of action were in evidence 
below stairs, poetry and romance were in the 
atmosphere of the drawing-room. For there the 
host would bring forth the cherished manuscripts 
of Childe Harold and the minor poems, with others 
that had come from Ashestiel or Abbotsford. 

The portraits in the Albemarle dining-room 
suggest the African travellers I have met at the 
Athenaeum. Sir Richard Burton was a man who 
must have fixed attention anywhere. I think his wife 
says in her biography that some people called his 
expression diabolical. Though I did not, like her, 
fall in love with him at first sight, it never struck 
me in that way. It was severe, stern, saturnine if 
you like, but not in the slightest degree repulsive. 
On the contrary, in animated conversation it bright- 
ened up, and the smile when he put you straight 
on some vexed geographical point was winning 



FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN/EUM 235 

and almost sweet. Before I met him in the flesh, 
I had remarked to Lord Houghton that the 
gratuitous aggressiveness of his books rubbed me 
up the wrong way. Lord Houghton, who was fond 
of fighting his own battles, said, ' If the man is in 
the right, why should he not be aggressive ? ' And 
undoubtedly Burton, like Sir Charles Napier, was 
a man of strono- will and stronoer animosities ; he 
never could get on smoothly either with rivals or 
superiors. He won me to share his resentment to 
the full, at his not having been named Consul- 
General in Morocco in succession to Drummond 
Hay, for no man seemed better fitted for such a 
post. Since his Biography was written by the wife 
who adored him, I have reconsidered that opinion. 
But when there was nothing to irritate and you 
only sought to learn, he would roar you as softly 
as any sucking dove. At the club he lunched 
alone, and generally with a book before him. 
When he dived to the smoking-room for coffee 
and cigar, then came your opportunity. Then he 
would talk unreservedly enough about the lands he 
had visited and the perils he had escaped. Then 
he would discuss the devious wandering-s of the 
Israelites in the desert, expatiate on the treasures 
of the mines of Midian which he had been sent to 
prospect, or revert to his stormy consulate at 
Damascus, when there were troubles in ' the Moun- 
tain,' and he was generally in hot water. 

There was one delicate subject I never ventured 



236 DAYS OF THE PAST 

to approach, and that was Central Africa and the 
Nile Sources. I had heard too much about it from 
Colonel Grant, who was the devoted friend of 
Speke, and necessarily the bitter aversion of 
Burton. Indeed, there was no love lost between 
them. Grant I knew intimately, and the more he 
was known the better he was liked. With his tall, 
muscular figure — decoupld, as the French phrase 
it — he looked the athlete for the ' walk across 
Africa.' With that commanding form and pleasant 
but determined face, he was the very man to 
smooth his way among savages without falling 
back on firearms. After all he had accomplished, 
there was no blood-guiltiness on his conscience. 
When he had married a lady of fortune and taken 
up house in Grosvenor Street, he was the most 
hospitable of entertainers, and gathered hosts of 
congenial friends around him. Naturally he took 
a deep interest in the Geographical Society, and 
was a regular attendant at the dinners, to which 
he generally invited a guest. The most kindly of 
men and absolutely trustworthy, you should have 
given implicit credence to anything he said. Yet 
I confess I have been staggered by circumstantial 
stories, relative to Burton's relations with Speke, 
and though I have had them confirmed subse- 
quently on independent authority, I hesitate still 
to do more than hint at them. The traveller 
was interested in other things than the problem 
of the Nile Sources. Little as you might know 



FRIENDS OF THE ATHENvEUM 237 

of botany, nothing was more agreeable than to be 
taken into his back drawing-room and den to turn 
over the portfolios of Central African flora, with 
running commentaries on the circumstances in 
which the plants had been gathered. 

One day, stopping to speak to Grant at his 
luncheon-table in the club, he introduced me to 
a sun-burned, sun-dried, careworn man, sitting 
opposite him. Unfortunately I did not catch the 
name, and after some casual remark passed on, 
though Grant in his cordial way asked me to join 
them. Only afterwards I learned to my regret 
that it was Stanley, just returned from his melan- 
choly march for the relief of Emin Pasha. So I 
had but a single glimpse of another Pasha — Sir 
Samuel Baker — standing on the steps of Shep- 
heard's Hotel at Cairo, the African explorer whose 
fascinating literary style has always given his 
books an exceptional charm for me. Cairo was 
then full of notorieties, for the gaieties at the open- 
ing of the Suez Canal were in full swing, and most 
of the visitors paid some attention to the toilet. 
Baker was got up in rough tweeds and knicker- 
bockers, as if he were turning out for a day's 
shooting. I was hurrying off to catch a train, and 
had scarcely time to take a second look. So I had 
but a vague impression of the broad chest and 
massive build which he declared to be of inestim- 
able value to the explorer, when he knocked the 
ringleader of the mutineers out of time in the 



238 DAYS OF THE PAST 

scrimmage at the start from Khartoum for the 
Nile fountains. 

I dined with Professor Palmer at the Athenaeum 
on the eve of his leaving for Arabia on the mys- 
terious missions which have never been altogether 
explained. I owed that pleasure to his intimacy 
with Chenery, for their common interest in oriental 
studies drew them closely together. As to the 
objects of these missions, he was naturally reserved. 
It was understood that the first and chief one was 
to treat with the desert sheiks and assure the Suez 
Canal from their raiding when Arabi had raised 
the standard of revolt. On landing at Port Said 
Palmer changed his costume, and was riding 
through the Sinaitic Peninsula in Syrian robes, 
lavishing magnificent gifts. That first mission 
was so successful, that arriving at Suez, he per- 
suaded the Admiral and Lord Northbrook that 
with ;^20,ooo at his disposal he could easily raise 
50,000 Bedouins. He set off again, with ;^30oo in 
gold in his saddlebags, professedly to purchase 
camels : rather, perhaps, for the confidential inter- 
view with the leading chiefs, for which he had 
prearranged. On the way to that meeting he was 
ambushed and murdered. 

Palmer, with his placid face, his keen, bright 
eyes and soft-flowing beard, was admirably fitted 
to assume the disguise of the Bedouin, with whose 
habits and speech he was familiar. He was san- 
guine as to results, and would probably have 



FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN^UM 239 

succeeded, but for an intervention which no 
Englishman could possibly have foreseen. I 
should be loath to give credence to that sinister 
rumour, had it not been confirmed to me by a 
keen-witted editor, the reverse of credulous, on 
evidence he accepted as absolutely truthful. It 
was said that a countryman closely lU with some 
of the Arab chiefs had warned them of the envoy's 
second journey and its objects, intimating besides 
that his camels would be weighted with gold. But 
no shadow of the impending tragedy rested upon 
Palmer that night. His spirits rose high over the 
excitement of the journey ; the talk was rather 
retrospective than regardful of the future ; and I 
sat in silence, listening to the animated conversa- 
tion, enriched by stores of recondite learning. 
Then the old friends shook hands and parted for 
the last time. 

Were I to launch out on personal recollections 
of the Athenaeum it would be endless. I must 
content myself with random allusions to some 
men who specially won my affection or admiration. 
I see them now as they lived and moved. Going 
far back, there is Lord Colonsay, President of the 
Court of Session and Lord Justice-General, who 
proposed me for the club. With his sage aspect, 
broad forehead, and the shaggy grey eyelashes 
thatching the hanging eaves of the eyebrows, you 
might have said of him, as was said of Lord 
Thurlow, that no man could possibly be so wise 



240 DAYS OF THE PAST 

as he looked ; yet you would have been wrong. 
When he came south, he left behind him in Scot- 
land an unrivalled reputation as a civil and criminal 
judge, and his judgments carried great weight in 
Scottish cases in the Lords. With young beginners 
in the law he was most affable and condescending, 
and the dignified old man wasted much good 
advice on me when I passed at the Scottish Bar. 
His habits were simple, and his fare was Spartan. 
I often dined with him tete-a-tHe at the Carlton, 
when he generally contented himself with a couple 
of mutton chops. He had much to say about the 
politicians he saw sitting at other tables ; but he was 
a genuine Highlander, and never so happy as when 
you got him away to the Western Isles and his pic- 
turesque home on lonely Colonsay. And that was 
the case with his brother. Sir John. One winter 
Sir John came to see us, when we had apartments 
in the Villa Rupe at Sorrento. A voracious reader, 
he was full of Greg's Political Problems, which he 
had been studying in the carriage from Castellamare. 
I have the volume now, with his autograph on the 
title-page. From English politics I changed the 
subject to Central Asia and Persia, hoping to get 
some lights on those countries from the English- 
man, who perhaps knew them best. He talked 
with great animation on the subject, deploring the 
ascendency of Russia in the Court of the Shah. As 
on one of the few bright days in a Sorrento winter 
we were climbing the hill crowned by the Deserta, 



FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN^UM 241 

when turning, he saw Capri floating in a sunny 
haze at its moorings off the mouth of the Bay, of 
all places in the world it reminded him of surf- 
beaten Colonsay. I forget whether it was before 
that or afterwards that he bought the island from 
his brother. 

There could be no stronger contrast to Lord 
Colonsay than Lord Morris, ex-Chief- Justice of 
Ireland and a more recent acquaintance. Morris 
shone, sparkled, and bubbled over with Irish 
humour in the society that Lord Colonsay shunned. 
I fancy he prided himself on the rich Irish brogue 
which gave piquancy to his ready repartees and 
excellent stories. He was equally at home with 
all sorts and conditions of men, and dealt with 
criminals in as summary a manner as Lord Bramwell, 
but with a geniality which for the moment almost 
reconciled them to their fate. On the Bench and 
in the Senate common sense predominated. He 
had a strong sympathy with the erratic statesman- 
ship of Lord Randolph Churchill and a great 
admiration for the man. He used to quote with 
a chuckle Lord Randolph's illustration of the ab- 
surdities of the extremists who advocated women's 
rights. It was the story of a well-known champion 
of feminine claims who got into an omnibus, found 
all the seats occupied, and stood scowling at the 
man in front of her. ' I believe you are Mrs. So- 
and-So,' he quietly remarked, * and go in for the 
rights of women.' *I do,' the lady said uncom- 

Q 



242 DAYS OF THE PAST 

promisingly, and the response came sharp, ' Well, 
stand up for them, then.' That was characteristic 
of his humour, as well as of his strong native sense. 
So he had a natural antipathy to the statesmen 
who stood on their dignity and would not unbend. 
He could never have ranked among the obsequious 
followers of the elder or younger Pitt. He had 
a high regard for a noble politician who had made 
a firm stand against Home Rule, and had drawn a 
large following after him, when Chamberlain was 
making sure of the Midlands. Yet, as he said, 
that nobleman was never cut out for a premier in 
a democratic country, and a reminiscence of his 
own served as proof. He was walking homewards 
from the House of Lords late one evening with a 
well-known peer, a staunch Liberal Unionist, when 

his friend said, ' There 's ahead of us, let us go 

on and join him.' 'Better not,' said Morris; but 
his companion would not be bidden, and hurried for- 
ward. In a couple of minutes he came back ; meta- 
phorically with his tail between his legs ; the great 
grandee had hardly deigned to answer him. * Can 
you wonder,' said Morris, 'that he never was 
premier, nor ever will be ! ' For himself, though 
he had a strong backbone there was no starch 
about him ; he could drop his judicial dignity, 
and accommodate himself to his surroundings. He 
was as popular at his wild home of Spidal as in 
the London clubs or at the Castle, where his chaff 
of the lady of a Liberal Lord Lieutenant is still 



FRIENDS OF THE ATHENv^UM 243 

remembered ; and his influence won the seat at 
Galway for his son, when no other Conservative 
had a chance outside of Ulster or DubHn. Another 
Irishman of something the same type and much 
the same convictions was Sir WilHam Gregory, 
who was likewise a Galway landlord, yet never 
lost his popularity. I made his acquaintance on 
board the Delta, when we were on our way 
to the opening of the Suez Canal. Among 
the other passengers were Lord Houghton, the 
Hon. Tom Bruce, Hawkshaw, and Bateman, the 
engineers, Simpson of the Illustrated News, and 
many another. But no one of them was more 
agreeable or more instructive than Gregory, with 
the manifold recollections of a wide knowledo-e of 

o 

the world. He won golden opinions as Governor 
of Ceylon, and left a sad blank when we lost him 
at the Athenseum. 

Many a literary man owes a debt of gratitude to 
Sir Richard Quain. He may be said to have 
constituted himself physician-in-ordinary to the 
literary guild. But there were two objections to 
turning to him in your troubles. The first was 
that he would take no fee, which made you shy of 
looking him up in Harley Street. The second, 
that when you did go, he was so interested in 
current events, that he would talk about anything 
rather than the object of your visit. Sometimes, 
en revanche, he sent you away brightened up, for 
his buoyant temperament was contagious. A 



244 DAYS OF THE PAST 

great crony of Delane's, he was specially concerned 
about the leaders of the Times and the men who 
wrote them. There was no possibility of mistaking 
his nationality ; like Morris and Gregory he hailed 
from West Ireland. But in him the brogue had 
toned down into a mere souvenir of his native 
Mallow, which, like his brother the judge, he held 
in fond affection. I had come back from making 
an Irish tour as Times commissioner, and my regret 
was that I had not interviewed him as to Mallow 
before starting, he had so much to say of the 
romantic little town and its singularly picturesque 
environs. Ouain was a sportsman and emphati- 
cally a cosmopolitan. He loved to take his 
holidays in the Hungarian plains or the Car- 
pathians, and many a boar's head and hure came 
to his table from the Magyar friends who had 
entertained him in their castles. A busy man, 
he was seldom to be seen in the Athenaeum, and 
then the carriage would draw up at the door, and 
he would drop in late. You would be roused with a 
touch to find him perching on the elbow of your 
chair, eager as any citizen of old Athens to hear 
or to tell any new thing. If he had another fault 
as a physician, it was that in the flow of anecdote 
he was inclined to be indiscreet as to the celebrated 
patients who had consulted him. When years had 
gone by, he was not over-scrupulous as to the 
incognita which anonymous princes and veiled 
queens had jealously sought to guard. If he came 



FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN^UM 245 

seldom to the Athenaeum, he knew the wines 
of the cellars better than any one. At a dinner of 
strangers there, he was sitting next to me, and 
when the claret was circulating he turned to me to 
recommend a special tap of port. It was a vintage 
which by a whisper to the butler, without consult- 
ing the host, he had summoned from the vasty 
deep, and then recommended to the general atten- 
tion of the company. When the Lafitte had not a 
chance. As a notable bon vivant, his practice 
clashed with his preaching. I consulted him once, 
and he imperatively ordered a strict rdginie for 
a week or so ; then as I was leaving the room he 
asked off-hand, ' Are you going to the Sahirday 
Review dinner to-morrow at Greenwich ? ' ' How 
can I,' I answered ruefully, 'after your absurd 
orders ? ' ' Oh, never you mind ; go all the same, 
and sit opposite to me ; I '11 raise my finger to my 
lips if there is anything specially unwholesome.' 
And that at a banquet where there was everything 
rich and indigestible, from the calipash and calipee 
to the dressed crab and the camembert. How man- 
fully he faced the painful disease which killed him, 
I know well, for I was sometimes admitted to his 
sick-chamber. There was always the same cordial 
welcome ; always the same cheery alertness as to 
the things which were passing in the outer world, 
with a touchino- resiofnation to the end he foresaw, 
and which speedily came as a relief. 

A man I regretted much was Sir Frederick 



246 DAYS OF THE PAST 

Pollock. Member of a distinguished and brilliantly 
successful family, famous alike in law, literature, 
and arms, he inherited the talent and the bonhomie 
of his race. Once a week there was a day when 
he used to lunch regularly at the Athenaeum, before 
attending the Board of an Insurance Company. 
As a friend of his son, then editing the Saturday 
RevieWy I seldom missed one of these weekly 
meetings ; indeed the temptation to come to town 
was irresistible. The courtly Queen's Remem- 
brancer had an endless store of reminiscences ; he 
published them afterwards in a lively little volume. 
His gentle manner and deliberation of speech 
made the story or the bon mot all the more telling. 
Sir Frederick had a slight stoop, but his brother, 
Sir Richard — known in the family as ' Uncle Trim ' 
— carried himself like a soldier and straight as a 
lance, seemed the incarnation of evergreen activity. 
Though he seldom volunteered anything as to his 
own services as soldier and political resident in the 
North Western Provinces, he was an invaluable 
source of information as to comrades and illustrious 
contemporaries of the fighting days when the 
frontier of the Indus seemed trembling in our 
fingers. I was greatly indebted to talks with 
him when writing the biography of John Jacob of 
Jacobabad ; and his sudden and unexpected death 
came as a startling shock. 

Frederick Locker Lampson used to remind me 
of Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, as Scott describes 



FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN^UM 247 

him. A fastidious dilettante, delighting in the 
society of men of letters, he prowled about the 
purlieus of literature, occasionally hazarding an 
inbreak. In poetry Praed was his model ; and he 
was a charming writer of society verse, polishing 
with infinite care. Hamley, with whom he was on 
the closest terms of friendship, always in corre- 
spondence addressed him as * My dear poet,' with, 
possibly, a faint touch of irony. And he used 
sincerely to condole with Locker in his provincial 
exiles, when in later years he had a charming 
country seat in Sussex, and had built himself a 
commodious mansion on the wind-blown cliffs of 
Cromer. The keen north wind touched a sensitive 
liver, and the country had few attractions for a 
man who delighted in intellectual company, in 
book shops, print shops, and repositories of curios. 
When in town. Locker was a regular attendant at 
the midnight meetings of the Cosmopolitan, and 
took no little trouble in beating up for eligible 
members. And he prided himself, with excellent 
reason, on having filled for many years the hono- 
rary ofiice of treasurer to the Literary Society, 
perhaps the most select fellowship in England. 
The members, like the French Academicians, are 
limited to forty, and a single black ball excludes. 
On the lists are the names of archbishops and 
lords chancellors, statesmen, diplomatists, famous 
travellers, and many of the immortals in letters 
and the arts. In fact, they are rolls of fame and 



248 DAYS OF THE PAST 

of all that has been most distinguished since the 
first year of the last century. 

I felt exceptional regret for the death of Sir 
Frederick Bramwell as a near and hospitable 
neighbour in the Kentish Weald. His was a 
rarely versatile intellect, and to the last he showed 
his irrepressible vitality. A great man of science, 
and in incessant and lucrative employment as a 
practical engineer, his other interests were mani- 
fold. His brother, the Baron, is said to have said 
of him, ' He knows as much law as myself and 
all other things.' He was a voracious and 
miscellaneous reader ; no one was better versed in 
the best contemporary fiction. He was deeply 
concerned in all the scientific inventions which 
could be turned to popular and profitable account. 
His services and great authority were constantly 
retained on arbitrations and commissions of inquiry. 
He was constantly putting in an appearance at 
scientific gatherings in the provinces, from the 
British Association downwards. I have often seen 
him sitting crumpled up of a bitter morning on 
the platform of his railway station, and read on the 
following morning a brilliant speech delivered at 
Leeds or Liverpool. But he never bored the 
uninitiated with transcendental talk; he had a play- 
ful humour and a happy wit. One day he professed 
to grumble at the charming country place of which 
he was both fond and proud, as being down in a 
hollow amid damp meadows. I remarked that 



FRIENDS OF THE ATHENAEUM 249 

he was fortunately situated in a most picturesque 
and interesting neighbourhood. * So your idea of 
happiness,' he retorted, ' is a place from which you 
are always glad to get away.' In an obituary 
notice in a New Jersey journal, his great friend, 
Monsignor Doane, told a characteristic story of a 
speech of Sir Frederick's at a scientific dinner at 
Cambridge. It was very late when he got upon 
his legs, and he said the only thing that occurred 
to him in connection with applied science at that 
hour, was the striking of a lucifer match and 
applying it to a bedroom candle. 



CHAPTER XIII 

RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 

No recollections are more pleasant or more varied 
than those associated with the rod or the gun. 
They carry you back into all manner of scenes, 
from the forest and the moor to the fields and the 
coverts, from the birch-fringed Highland loch to 
the breezy down, the swamp, and the seashore. 
Moreover, they lead you into strange countries, 
among men of rude manners and unfamiliar speech. 
Wonderfully fresh they are too, and the fresher the 
further you go back, at least so I find them. I 
conjure up the spot where I shattered the head of 
my first rabbit, with a heavy double-barrel I could 
hardly bring to my shoulder, as he sat under a 
spruce bough. It was not much of a performance, 
for the range was little over a couple of yards, but 
the thrill of sanguinary satisfaction that ran through 
the veins surpassed that when I whipped the first 
trout out of the burn with a worm on a string and 
a hazel rod. Boys are neither bloodthirsty nor 
deliberately cruel, but, when healthy and country- 
bred, they take naturally to sport as the young 
spaniel or terrier. And in spite of all the senti- 
mentalist or humanitarian can say, it is a law of 

250 



RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 251 

beneficent nature that the passion should grow on 
them. As I have said somewhere else, the man 
with the gun is the friend of the weak and the 
protector of the helpless. But qui s excuse s accuse, 
and it is idle arguing a case which has long since 
been satisfactorily settled by experience, conscience, 
and common sense. The first rabbit and the first 
trout were followed in due course by other moments 
of rapture and hours or minutes of intense excite- 
ment. The first sight of the distant deer in his 
native wilds — not as I had seen them before, from 
the top of a stage coach, deliberately crossing the 
road in advance, conscious apparently that they 
were out of season and safe. The first mad rush 
of the first salmon ; the fall of the first woodcock 
in the coppice, when I snapped at him, haphazard, 
through the boughs of an oak tree ; the dropping 
of the first snipe after a multitude of discreditable 
misses, etc. etc. 

Looking back upon changes in the country and 
the revolution in shooting methods, the laudator 
temporis acti makes melancholy moan. Shooting is 
far less of a sport and much more of a business asso- 
ciated with social functions. I am inclined to agree 
with old Donald, Frederick St. John's keeper and 
constant companion, that agricultural advance and 
the progress of reclamation have been playing sad 
havoc with everything. I see oat crops waving 
now over the snipe bogs, which one could only 
tread at peril of immersion to the armpits. Fields 



252 DAYS OF THE PAST 

on the home farm have been drained, where you 
were sure to find any number of hares squatting 
under the tufts of rushes. Though to be sure that 
scarcity is very much owing to the late Sir WilHam 
Harcourt's exterminating Act, passed just at the 
moment when tenants were dictating terms to the 
landlords. Even on tolerably well-watched estates 
there used to be but a rough kind of preserving, 
and the rheumatic old head keeper would never 
dream of leaving the blankets to keep a chilly out- 
look for possible poachers. Indeed, unless he had 
set his snares for hares or rabbits, there was little 
to tempt the poacher to nocturnal raids. Then the 
youth could walk the woods through the shooting 
season, seeking anything that offered a shot from 
rabbit or weasel to hawk or wood-pigeon. Now 
the home coverts, with carefully tended undergrowth, 
perhaps with dummy birds on the branches and 
bell-wires stretched over the ground, are strictly 
tabooed. The protected haunts of the hand-fed 
pheasant are held over for two or three big shoots ; 
and even if you are privileged to join in the fun, 
such as it is, it is concentrated and comparatively 
tame. 

When Colonel Hawker travelled down to Scot- 
land, on his several shooting trips, he seems to 
have lighted from the coach where he pleased, put 
his gun together and gone out trying his luck. 
When St. John, many years later, kept house at 
Invererne and elsewhere in Moray, he tramped the 



RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 253 

surrounding country for days, for anything- from 
deer and ptarmigan down to duck and snipe. His 
wanderings included those famous moors of The 
Mackintosh, which now, with the system of scientific 
driving and strategical butts, are rich in record 
bags. I never was privileged to take such roving 
liberties, and those prehistoric experiences were 
before my time. But I remember that when out 
with the gun, we were nowhere over particular 
about marches, and trespassers, after brief and 
benevolent expostulation, often arranged to club 
for luncheon with the aggrieved. 

But I do remember the startling boom, when 
Scottish landowners realised the value of sporting 
property. It was the railway which in the first 
place brought it about. When the Southerner had 
to travel north by * Defiance ' or Royal Mail, Loch- 
aber or Badenoch, to say nothing of Sutherland 
or the Ord of Caithness, lay altogether beyond 
the ordinary experiences of Piccadilly or Pall Mall. 
The favoured few brought up reports of the grand 
days to be enjoyed in such regularly patrolled 
forests as Braemar, Athol, or the Blackmount. The 
Great North Railway ran to Aberdeen and Inver- 
ness, and afterwards the Highland line was opened. 
Impoverished Highland lairds had struck a gold 
mine ; but the most sanguine were slow to believe 
in the prospective value of their solitudes. To 
take a single example of the rapid rise. In 1854, 
to their bitter subsequent regret the Mackenzies 



254 DAYS OF THE PAST 

parted with their hereditary wastes of Applecross. 
They were sold to the Duke of Leeds for ^135,000. 
On the death of the Duke, a few years afterwards, 
the property came into the market in three lots and 
it fetched ^206,000. Further subdivisions brought 
successive startling advances. The same thing has 
been going on everywhere, though latterly there 
has been a reaction. Sheep were swept from the 
hills, as the black cattle had vanished before the 
sheep ; forests were subdivided at fancy rents and 
enclosed with wire-fencing like a Queensland cattle 
run or an Argentine estancia. When you run up 
against wire-fencing in the wilds of Ross or Inver- 
ness you are reminded of the barbed hedges in the 
Vale of Harrow and of the villa cockney dom of 
Tooting or Balham. And apropos to villadom, the 
primitive but comfortable shooting-lodges have 
been replaced by the Gothic castle or the Italian 
mansion. There are house parties and motor cars 
and French cooks and ladies' maids, where in your 
little pine-panelled den, like the state cabin of an 
old paddle steamship, you used to be awakened by 
the crow of the grouse to take a header in the loch 
under the window. You might turn out in your 
night-dress or mpuris naturalibtis without the fear 
of scandalising anybody. Travelling the winding 
mountain road from Dingwall to Loch Maree not 
long ago, I passed the site of one of those familiar 
forest lodges. There was not even a sign of the 
ruins that mark the sites of Babylon or Nineveh. 



RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 255 

But opposite glared a many-storied structural 
edifice, of the most florid Corinthian order of 
architecture. The old grouse or ptarmigan hills 
— no great extent as deer forests go in the High- 
lands — had been enclosed, and, as I saw by a 
paragraph in a local journal the other day, the new 
proprietor had killed one hundred stags last season. 
Naturally the round number was suspicious ; but if 
he had done anything like that amount of butchery 
in the limits, he might as well have been browning- 
broods of chickens in his poultry yard. 

Some forty years ago, a man satisfied with 
moderate sport, and who did not mind hard walk- 
ing, could have a shooting of his own for a com- 
parative trifle. I knew an ofificer of the coast-guard 
who rented half a great parish on the bleak shores 
of Buchan from Lord Seafield for ^12. There 
was fair partridge shooting, some shreds of grouse 
moor, and any quantity of duck and snipe ; as for 
the rabbits they swarmed on the sandhills. He did 
not squander money on keepers, but engaged the 
farmers in his interests by gifts of game. Another 
friend paid little more for a most picturesque and 
accessible shoot on the banks of Loch Lomond, 
where the early woodcocks sought favourite lying ; 
where roe and black game abounded, with a sprink- 
ling of wild pheasants. I ought to remember 
the place, not only for the glorious views looking 
down on the archipelago of the Loch, but because 
I had a narrow escape from the fate of Mr. 



256 DAYS OF THE PAST 

Fawcett. I still carry between the eyes a pellet 
that made a close shave of the eyeball. 

The Highlands and the remoter Lowlands were 
more primitive then, and, to my mind, infinitely 
more enjoyable. Even if a man is no misanthrope, 
as I certainly was not, for I would have gone any 
day a hundred miles for a dance, there are times 
when he loves to commune with nature in her 
solitudes, and to play with some parody of the spirit 
of adventure. Then away from the great high- 
roads there was any extent of backcountry, practi- 
cally trackless and unexplored. Even in the 
immemorial passes through the hills, the ways 
were little frequented, except by the keepers or 
occasional drovers. There was no great exaggera- 
tion in the old story of the stonebreaker, asked by 
a southern tourist whether there was ever any 
traffic. * Oh, ay, it's no ill for that,' was the 
answer ; * there was a packman body passed yester- 
day, and there's yoursel' the day.' Once I was 
myself taken by one of the natives for a packman 
body. Knapsack on shoulder, I was walking 
across from Braemar to Glen Tilt after a Braemar 
Gathering. Half way across I was stopped by an 
old wife in mutch and red roquelaure, who sighted 
me from afar and rushed out of her turf-roofed 
hovel to ask ' if I was sellin' things.' That walk, 
by the way, illustrated some of the perils of field 
and flood that might beset the guideless wayfarer. 
You crossed many a streamlet, shrivelled up in its 



RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 257 

dry bed in a droughty summer, but which might 
come down at any time in raging flood after some 
waterspout in the hills. Rivers like the Tilt or 
the Bruar were regularly bridged, though the 
bridges, then as in Scrope's days, would be as 
regularly washed away in winter, to be brought 
back and rebuilt in the spring. But the smaller 
burns were only spanned by a pine stem, and as 
they could generally be stepped across, they had 
to await their turn for the restoration of com- 
munications. That walk of mine came off on a 
glorious day, but the burns were still half-bank 
high, after a week of unprecedented downpour. 
You had to cast about to find a practicable fording 
place, and then it was gingery work on the slippery 
pavement, stemming the swift rush, knee-deep or 
up to mid-thigh. The rather that some croaking 
ravens took an ominous interest in your proceed- 
ings. The worst was that you were thrown out 
of the track and had to regain it through bog 
and boulder, and, though being benighted in moun- 
tain mists was no novel experience, I was glad 
enough to strike on the road at last and to reach 
the Atholl Arms as the last lights were being 
extinguished. 

With all the undeniable drawbacks those pedes- 
trian rambles were delightful when you were 
exulting in health and youth. All the impedimenta 
were a light waterproof and a short trouting-rod 
strapped to a knapsack almost as light. It only 



258 DAYS OF THE PAST 

held a change of flannels and nether raiment, 
slippers, and the indispensable toilette necessaries. 
It was no use counting over much with the climate, 
especially on the romantic western coast, unless the 
flood-gates of heaven were actually opened. The 
grouse and the sheep were your weather-glasses, 
and even they sometimes spoke with uncertain 
sound. The boots awoke you according to orders 
at what ought to have been sunrise, but had it not 
been for the tumbler of rum and frothing milk, 
possibly you could hardly have summoned resolu- 
tion to rouse yourself. Everything is wreathed in 
volumes of fleecy vapour. You hear the muffled 
bell of the early steamer at the little pier some- 
where out of black, dreary space. But the grimmer 
the day, the more you are set upon keeping mov- 
ing, so you sling your knapsack and hope for the 
best. The drizzle thickens and your spirits go 
down. But the West Highlands, like West Ireland, 
is a land of enchanting surprises, and suddenly 
there are rifts in the watery clouds which quickly 
lighten and brighten. Then the sun breaks out 
in his strength, rejoicing as a strong man to run 
a race, and the vapours vanish before him, rolling 
up into nooks and corners of the valleys. By this 
time you have scaled a commanding height, and a 
glorious prospect to seaward opens before you; 
you look down a winding sea-arm with sea-wrack- 
strewn shores to islands floating between the sea 
and the sky, decked out in all the colours of the rain- 



RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 259 

bow. In the foreground are the brown sails of the 
fishing-boats, gHttering like burnished gold. But 
your path lies landward, across the moors. For 
long miles you have met no human being, and you 
are in a solitude with no sign of habitation. All 
the same it is a sensational walk for a naturalist 
and sportsman. It is solitary but not silent. On 
all sides is the clamouring of the winged tenants 
of the wastes ; the cheery crow of the grouse cock 
contrasts with the shrill whistle of the ' whaup ' or 
curlew, and the melancholy wailings of the lapwings 
who swoop down over your shoulders. As you 
track the course of the mountain burn, you hear 
the wild, sweet song of the ring ousel — the moun- 
tain blackbird — as you turn a sharp bend in the 
brawling streamlet, there is the quack of alarm of 
the mallard and his mate. And forty years ago, 
when the war of extermination against the winged 
'vermin' had scarcely begun, you sighted many 
species of the picturesque raptores. The hawks 
were there, from the peregrine winging his flight to 
the distant sea-cliff, stooping at some startled brood 
of grouse in sheer wantonness, never stopping to 
pick up his stricken victim, to the pretty little 
merlin nesting sociably among the moorfowl, but 
never scrupling to take toll of them all the same. 

Moorland it might be and no deer forest ; never- 
theless in that forest-skirted country you might 
happen upon outlying deer, jumping out of the 
moss pit where they had been bathing, and canter- 



26o DAYS OF THE PAST 

ing away within easy gunshot, with blackened and 
dripping hides. Not infrequently on these occa- 
sions the long- Highland miles drew out into leagues, 
and when you stumbled across some gillie or stray 
shepherd, you learned that you were pretty sure 
to be belated. As the gloaming came on, you heard 
the bark of the prowling dog fox, and perchance 
caught a glimpse of the marauder. There was 
nothing of the sneaking gait of his persecuted Low- 
land congener. On the contrary, with his pads on 
his native heath, he carried himself with the stride 
and spring of the mountaineer. Other night 
prowlers there were none, for neither badger nor 
otter are given to show themselves, and I seldom 
chanced to see a genuine wild cat. The gloaming 
had come on and the shadows were falling. If 
there was a silvering of moonlight, it only confused 
you when trying to puzzle out the doubtful path. 
Should you once fairly lose it, the best plan was to 
seek the friendly burn again, and follow it, though 
it ran down through rough heather into tangled 
copsewood. In such circumstances, if you knew 
vaguely the lie of the land, the hooting of the night 
owls was a cheery sound, for you knew you were 
near the pine woods which must be threaded. In 
these it was easy walking, for there is little under- 
growth beneath the silver firs, and you trod softly 
on a crackling carpet of pine needles. But the 
flickering moonbeams cast a sinister light through 
the dark foliage, and superstitious fancies were apt 



RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 261 

to steal over you. You recalled wild legends of 
the Lham Dearg, who haunted Rothiemurcus 
glades, and the tale of Wandering Willie, when 
his forbear fell in with the black horseman who 
led him to the scene of infernal revelry. It was 
a decided relief, and worth going through much 
more, to emerge at last on the open strath, and, 
like Bailie Nicol Jarvie, to welcome the lights of 
the clachan below you. 

There was nothing like such a walk as that to 
make you appreciate the comfort of the inn. I had 
considerable experience of the Highland inns, before 
they developed into hotels, and were swamped with 
southern tourists. If it was not there you found 
your warmest welcome, at least the good folk were 
glad to see you. If you were not exacting and did 
not hurry them, they were sure to do their best. 
When you came in dripping and muddy they looked 
at you askance ; you might be a sturdy beggar 
or a ' sorner ' who hoped to sponge on them. The 
rod and the knapsack disabused them, and then 
they were all kindness and hospitality. In the 
change house, which answered to the Spanish venta, 
the only fire was in the kitchen. The warm glow 
of the peat and bog-oak was as exhilarating as the 
odours which, if not refined, were refreshing. Venti- 
lation they did not go in for. The prevailing scent 
was 'bannocks and brose,' with a strong suffusion 
of whisky. But a brood hen or two, who shared 
the common sitting-room, showed there were eggs 



262 DAYS OF THE PAST 

forthcoming, and mutton hams and flitches, and 
possibly kippered salmon, were swinging from the 
blackened rafters. Never have I enjoyed supper 
more than on these occasions, though indulgence 
to satiety has sometimes been followed by night- 
mares and broken dreams, rehearsing the long day's 
incidents. Especially before experience had warned 
me against being lured into the good woman's spot- 
less sheets. Latterly I always preferred a shake- 
down of fragrant meadow hay in the outhouse. 

With the better class of inn in small towns or 
big villages, I established frequent and friendly 
relations. In many of them the simple old Scottish 
cookery was to be had in perfection, at least when 
you could give them a day's warning. In soups 
they excelled, and in light and simple sweets. In 
many of these inns the venerable waiter, profoundly 
interested in the prosperity of the house, was an 
institution. I fondly remember old Malcolm at 
Braemar, bowed with years, but active as ever, 
and an encyclopaedia of Highland folk-lore. Also 
another veteran at Forfar, who coached me up for 
a visit to Glamis, with its haunting memories and 
mysterious secret chamber. No one of them ever 
tempted me into trying their wines, but Glenlivet 
or Talisker was always forthcoming according to 
the latitudes ;, or at the worst, the more potent 
spirit from illicit stills, strong of the peat-reek, 
though mellowed by age. 

But for the real enjoyment of the Highlands, one 



RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 26 



o 



ought to be temporarily at home in them, with 
headquarters in a wild country with a variety of 
game. Flat moorland brings brief sport: heavy 
bags for a week or two, if the season and the weather 
are favourable ; then birds packing, with weary and 
profitless walking, and a precipitate departure for 
the South. In the wilder districts rents are gener- 
ally lower, and if you are keen on shooting of any 
sort, you get infinitely more value for your money. 
In Wester Ross, for example, the birds will sit in 
genial days till well on in November ; then with the 
coming of the black frosts, they are everywhere more 
approachable. But it is not to the grouse alone you 
devote your attentions : on the beats you may come 
across anything and everything, from ptarmigan 
and blue hares to wild-duck, snipe, and plover. 

I spoke of a familiar forest lodge, and no shoot- 
ing quarter brings back more agreeable memories. 
Moorland it was, rather than * forest,' though sur- 
rounded on all sides by sanctuaries sacred to the 
deer. It stood high, though sheltered, on the 
western slope of the watershed between the 
North Sea and the Atlantic. To the north was a 
winding lake, bordered beyond by a line of cliff 
and cairn, peopled by a colony of wild cats seldom 
seen. As we sat of an evening in the porch, we 
could hear their melancholy wailings borne over 
to us on the breeze, mingled with the twitter- 
inof of the swallows, which built under the low 
rafters of the lodge. On drizzly days when the 



264 DAYS OF THE PAST 

walking was bad, we used to troll for trout or net 
the bays for pike, and thither we repaired for the 
morning header. Sleeping with open windows, 
one was generally wakened by the crow of the 
grouse cock, and the first impulse was to look out 
for signs of the weather. If it promised fairly, the 
dogs seemed to know it, and there was no chance 
of going to sleep again, with the impatient chorus 
from the kennels. 

The quarters were cramped, but comfortable. 
The bedrooms were so many small cabins, panelled 
with pine, and the fittings were as compactly ad- 
justed as in the old-time sea-going steamer. The 
low-roofed sitting-room was relatively spacious, 
communicating by a door and short passage with 
the kitchen. There were pervading scents of 
homespun and waterproofs in course of drying, 
and of savoury cookery. We fared well with the 
produce of gun and rod, the mountain mutton, and 
supplies from the Dingwall butcher and Morell's 
branch establishment at Inverness. Whatever the 
temperature, the peat was generally kept smoulder- 
ing on the broad hearth, to be blown into a blaze 
of an evening, when the kettle was kept boiling for 
the toddy. There were dull days, no doubt, when 
remorseless rain was plashing against the windows, 
for though there was room enough to stretch the 
legs, the provision of literature was scanty, and we 
were fain to fall back on cleaning spotless guns, or 
playing with the young dogs in the kennels. 



RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 265 

Though, on the whole, we set rough weather at de- 
fiance, and sought recreation abroad in one shape 
or another. And when the sun broke through the 
mists with glorious promise, and when the waters 
had had some short time to subside, all was for- 
gotten. The transformation scene was often 
magical. You had done your dressing half in the 
dark, and now the atmosphere was so clear as to 
be strangely deceptive. Looking out from the 
porch, across the rolling and broken expanse of 
brown, green, and purple, the hills that skirted it 
— haunts of the ptarmigan and eagle — seemed 
so near, that you fancied you might have dis- 
tinguished with the naked eye the sheep pasturing 
in the corries. It was stiff walking before you 
reached them, as you knew by experience, with 
rather risky rock work to follow. 

There was many a record of mixed bags in the 
game book, though none of very bloody days, 
except when there were musters for the massacre 
of the hill-hare. First, in the swampy meadows in 
the river vale, where the hay crop was precariously 
stocked towards the middle of October, were 
coveys of the small hill-partridge. Then came the 
grouse, of which nothing is to be said, save that on 
those moors there was a blessed immunity from 
disease. The sweep of the epidemic used to be 
as sharply defied as the passage of the cholera 
through an Indian cantonment. There were few 
firs, and it was not much of a country for black 



266 DAYS OF THE PAST 

game, yet there were mossy and brackeny bits 
skirted by alders and birches, where you were 
Hkely enough to stumble on a brood. Mallards 
there were on the river and its tributary burns, and 
often when one was walking listlessly, you were 
brought sharply to attention by the rise of drake 
and duck from some velvet-covered moss-pot. 
Occasionally there were more sensational sur- 
prises. The shooting, as I said, was forest- 
enclosed, and in spite of the wandering shepherds 
and their sheep-dogs, outlying deer were tempted 
by the sweet grazing in the hollows. So I have 
seen hart and hind spring out of the moss within 
half-gunshot, and of course go away scatheless, for 
it would have been cruel to pepper them with 
smallshot. Next came the range of the mountain 
hares, leading up to their rocky refuges in the 
home of the ptarmigan, and there I once had 
another very exceptional experience, more unusual 
than walking up the wary deer. In a dense mist, my 
cheek was almost brushed by the wing of a golden 
eagle. To judge by his scream of consternation, 
as he shot up into the fog, he was the more taken 
aback of the two. Snipe were to be picked up 
anywhere; there were frequent flights of the golden 
plover, circling round the gun in crescent forma- 
tion, and giving chances for deadly raking when 
they settled in line on some low peat bank. With 
September came the first cocks of the season, lying 
half-exhausted in the heather, and, for the most 



RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 267 

part, wofully out of condition. And there were 
many birds to interest the naturalist, from hawks 
on the hover, encouraged in the neighbouring deer 
forests, to the ring ousel of the rocky rills, with his 
plaintive song, and to the short-winged grebes that 
had found their way thither somehow from the sea, 
to rear happy families in lonely tarns. 

That lodge was a resort of mine for successive 
seasons, but in earlier years I had the rare privi- 
lege of being more than once the guest of Horatio 
Ross, the old deer-stalker. The most lovable and 
kindly of men, I gratefully reverence his memory. 
When I was absent on the Continent, and likely to 
lose my election at the New Club in Edinburgh — 
I had neglected to replace a seconder who had 
died — he stepped into the breach. When I was 
coming up for the Carlton, I chanced to meet 
him in Pall Mall, and he took infinite trouble in 
canvassing the committee. In his Highland home 
he was the most genial of hosts, and Othello was 
not in it with him in the multiplicity of his sporting 
reminiscences, from steeplechasing and the hunt- 
ing field to deer-stalking and pigeon matches at 
the Red House. He had been hand in glove with 
all the most famous sportsmen, and, when he had 
pitted himself against them for heavy bets, had 
rarely overrated his powers. His most remark- 
able feats have become matters of history. What 
impressed me most was his story of how he won 
what seemed an impossible bet as to the number 



268 DAYS OF THE PAST 

of swallows he would kill with a pistol before a 
nine-o'clock breakfast. It showed his shrewdness 
as well as his skill. He posted himself at the 
corner of the house, fluttered a white handkerchief 
as the bird swept round, and dropped it when it 
poised. Temperate, though no ascetic, taking his 
two hours' exercise daily almost up to the last, he 
was always in high condition. He might have 
rivalled his old friend Captain Barclay in pedes- 
trianism, and it scarcely taxed his strength when 
he walked from Blackball on Deeside to Inverness, 
as umpire in the match between two friends who 
were dining with him. They made the bet over 
the decanters, made the start from the dinner- 
table, and Captain Ross, as he told me, did not 
even change his evening shoes. 

When I visited him in Ross-shire, he rented 
Gledfield and Dibidale. Gledfield House was on 
the banks of the Carron ; Dibidale was a narrow 
deer-forest stretching northwards, and marching 
with Mr. Mathieson's Ardross. In the Carron I 
caught my first salmon by a marvellous and most 
undeserved stroke of luck. It was an awkward 
river for a tyro to fish ; the trees on the pools 
hanging low over the water, so that much of the 
casting had to be underhand. Moreover, there 
had been an unprecedented spell of drought, and 
for days not a fish had been risen by the experts. 
Wearied and disgusted, I had been whipping away 
listlessly, when throwing the heavy rod back over 



RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 269 

my shoulder, I had a glimpse of the head and 
shoulders of a salmon ; the casting-line snapped, 
and circles of horse-hair festooned themselves round 
the top joint. My feelings may be imagined. 
But the very next day I hooked an eight-pound 
grilse in the ' Lady's Pool,' silvery as if he were 
fresh run from the sea. A hard fight I had, with 
my heart in my mouth, for there were birches 
behind and something like a cataract below, but 
under the experienced directions of the veteran 
keeper, the grilse was triumphantly cleiked, when 
the gut was fretted to a shred. 

The lodge at Dibidale was in a wilderness of 
heath and hills, on a brae sloping down to a burn 
that murmured or brawled with the chang-es in the 
weather. That burn is always associated in my 
mind with 'watching the passes.' There was rich 
grazing in Dibidale, and the deer would shift 
southwards with the dawn from Ardross. You 
were roused in the dark, to dress by candlelight. 
A glass of rum and milk with a biscuit, and you 
emerged from the door to go groping down the 
brae in Egyptian darkness. The old keeper led 
the way, swinging a lantern, and a long-legged 
subaltern followed with a rifle under either arm. 
You forded the burn on slippery stepping-stones, 
and 'set the stout heart to the stey brae.' It was 
an awkward scramble, and I know I used to be 
pretty well pumped out, before we crested the 
ridge and separated for our posts in the passes. 



270 DAYS OF THE PAST 

But when the sun showed a fiery ball over the 
mountain to the west, the sights and surroundings 
in themselves richly repaid you for the climb. 
There was no snow and less sublimity, but I have 
never seen more glorious sunrises from the Rigi 
or the Faulhorn. Then the excitement ! Of 
course it does not come up to the tremulous ' buck 
fever,' when the novice is almost within rifle-shot 
of a mighty hart, nearly collapsing after the long 
and heart-wearing stalk. Yet the suspense of 
waiting in hopeful expectation is intense. Each 
deceptive sound tells on the nerves, and excite- 
ment culminates when you hear the unmistakable 
hoof treads, with the slipping of the foot on gravel 
or shingle, and the occasional pause of suspicious 
hesitation. It may not be the highest kind of 
sport, but perhaps it is the most sustained strain 
of the senses. 

The worst was, that unless you were in the 
hardest conditions, it took it out of you for the 
rest of the day. There was always a resource in 
the burn, where there was good trouting or 
'guddling,' and the family kept their hands in at 
rifle shooting, at which the practice was wonderful. 
The hand of the old stalker was steady as ever, 
and four of his five sons were crack performers. 
Edward, as is well known, was the first winner 
of the Queen's prize at Wimbledon, and Hercules, 
the second brother, had a memorable record in 
potting rebel sepoys in the Indian Mutiny. 



RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 271 

It was most comfortable being quietly at home 
in your own lodge with your own friends, where 
everything could be ordered to your own liking. 
But I never passed a pleasanter August and 
September than when we were quartered in the 
village inn. The shooting had hung on the 
market ; it had gone ridiculously cheap at the 
last moment, and the mansion with the partridge 
ground had been reserved. As to the quarters 
first appearances were unpromising enough. There 
was nothing poetical or romantic about the village 
street, and the whitewashed, two-storied hostel 
was prosaic in the extreme. But those first im- 
pressions were deceptive. It is true the -horse- 
hair furniture of the sitting-room was the reverse 
of luxurious ; the window sashes worked badly, 
and in the bedrooms were stuffy box-beds. But 
as we were out on the moors most of the day, and 
came home tired, these slight drawbacks did not 
greatly signify. The landlord proved the best of 
good fellows, and catered for us in sumptuous style. 
With the profusion of game — for we had made a 
capital bargain — we might have dispensed with 
the attentions of a butcher. But each evening the 
table groaned under saddles and sirloins, and when 
they went down to the kitchen, the landlord and 
the keepers seemed to keep a free supper-table 
for all and sundry. Naturally we trembled for the 
mativais quart cVheure, but the bills were most 
mysteriously moderate. I think the tame dreari- 



272 DAYS OF THE PAST 

ness of the village gave a keener zest to the breezy 
freshness of the moor, and the charms of the semi- 
Highland scenery. Changing the paving-stones 
for the spring of the heather, the spirits went 
up automatically. Wild it was on the western 
horizon, where you looked up to the quaintly 
named hills, famous alike in history, legend, and 
song, the Tap O'Noth and the Buck of the 
Cabrach. Below them, cornfields and copses ran 
up into the heather, and the snipe bogs were inter- 
spersed with oases of green rushes, where the dogs 
were sure to come to a stand over broods of black 
game. There were crystal springs where v/e made 
our midday halts, and at one of them, the Well of 
Correnie, a madcap prank brought me once to 
humiliating grief. The luncheon basket used to 
come out on a lively young cob who had scarcely 
been broken to the shafts or the saddle. One 
day it came into my head to make a shooting pony 
of him, so I mounted and blazed off a barrel. In- 
continently he bolted. Trying to hold to the gun, 
I was shot off into a moss-pot. I emerged half- 
choked but little the worse, though recovering the 
gun gave us infinite trouble. As for the cob, 
like the scapegoat of the Pentateuch, he went off 
into the wilderness, and after a long chase a gilly 
came back with him, 'baith o' us sair forfoughten,' 
as he sadly declared, before recruiting with a 
' caulker ' and a heavy supper. 



CHAPTER XIV 

KEEPERS AND HILL SHEPHERDS 

Not a few of my most enjoyable days have been 
passed in company of keepers and simple-minded 
hill shepherds. They were intelligent, companion- 
able, and instructively conversable when they came 
to know you well. As for the old keepers, they 
taught me anything I know in the way of sport 
or natural history. Their knowledge was great, 
and their methods were eminently practical. The 
first of my tutors was a veteran, who, I am sorry 
to remember, was something of a scamp. He took 
his duties easily ; but that was the fashion of the 
time, or the neighbourhood. He never thought of 
leaving the blankets to look out for poachers, and 
he lay in bed the better part of the Sunday, for he 
held that if a man kept sober through the week, he 
was entitled to get drunk of a Saturday night. 
Old Craigie was well paid but not pampered, and 
all his habits were in the rough. He shared a loft 
at the ' barn yards ' with two or three of the 
ploughmen, and his couch with a couple of his 
favourite terriers. He made no pretensions and 
gave himself no airs. When I knew him he may 

s 



274 DAYS OF THE PAST 

have been sixty, though he looked considerably 
more, and his wish seemed to be to slip through 
the world and the woods unobserved. Death on 
the vermin, a deadly enemy of hawk, polecat, or 
weasel, he trod the soft carpet under the firs and 
the crackling leaves in the beech woods with the 
stealthy step of the Red Indian. His weather- 
bleached velveteens, much the worse for wear, 
blended well with the foliage and the withering 
bracken. His keen, grey eyes were roving every- 
where, reading * sign ' like print on each scrap of 
soft ground. He and his terriers had an abiding 
feud with the otter, and loved nothing better than 
tracking the nocturnal marauder to his holt, and 
marking him down for sport with some couples of 
crossbreeds. His constant companions were a 
pair of rough terriers, never more or less, who 
shadowed him at his heels and answered to a 
crook of his little finger. They had frequent 
opportunities of showing their stuff. The estate 
he had in special charge — there were two others 
within walking distance and also under his 
guardianship — had been little cared for through 
a long minority. The woods were untrimmed, 
and where the ground was damp, undergrown 
with almost impenetrable thicket ; the ill-drained 
meadows grew luxuriant tufts of rushes, where 
hares, ' maist as big as lambs,' as he said, used 
to squat ; and the gravel banks and loose stone 
dikes were honeycombed with subterranean pass- 



KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS 275 

ages, and literally swarming with rabbits. The 
tenants protested they were 'just devoured with 
the beasts.' 

As trapper and vermin-killer, with an eye for 
nests of all sorts, Craigie was the most fascinating 
of companions for a boy. Shooting of some sort 
was going on all the year round, for rabbits and 
wood pigeons must be killed down, and there was no 
nursine of the covers for bio- autumn shoots. The 
hawk would glance off the nest among the topmost 
spruce boughs ; the flash of the gun and down he 
would come, perchance with broken wing, fighting- 
still on his back with beak and talons, while up I 
would hurry, hand over hand, to make prize of the 
eoro's or the savaofe nursling^s. 

Craiofie was on the best of terms with the 
tenants, for he had carte blanche to supply them 
liberally with rabbits and so far stop their grumb- 
ling. When we crossed the thresholds without 
the ceremony of a knock, the whisky bottle was 
produced as a matter of course. Nevertheless, 
there was a standing cause of quarrel with the 
good wives, whose cats would mysteriously dis- 
appear. Not that there was really much mystery 
about it, for those stravaiging cottage cats were 
the most mischievous of poachers. Naturally, 
Craigie never pled guilty to many an unhallowed 
burial in a fox-hole or rabbit burrow, but there were 
always the notorious proclivities of his shadows, 
invariably named Rory and Mark. Sometimes 



276 DAYS OF THE PAST 

there was what the Scottish Law Courts call hame- 
sucken, when the cat was slaughtered on its own 
premises. Mark would fly straight at the throat ; 
Rory had a deadly knack of cracking the spine. 
It was sharp if not happy despatch, and in the 
woodlands that was the invariable finish of a 
scrambling, yelping chase, when the quarry had 
been treed and brought down crippled. Since 
then I have had many a feline friend and favourite 
who confidingly shared the hearth-rug with the 
dogs, but I confess with shame that, in those 
boyish days, there was nothing I found more ex- 
citing than the cat chase. Craigie, though he took 
things easily, had a method of his own with 
poachers. On the home estate he had little 
trouble ; his vagabond neighbours had a kindly 
regard for him and sought their pleasure or profit 
elsewhere. But one of the outlying properties, 
although almost unpreserved, somehow always 
showed hares and partridges in plenty. Yet, like 
the Morayshire of old times, it was a border 
territory where all men took their prey. One year, 
on the Castle farm, there was a covey of white 
partridges. The young laird was much interested, 
and old Craigie was extremely anxious to save 
them. The man he was most afraid of was a 
miller, who, renting a small shooting, made it an 
excuse for raiding all around. So, as Craigie told 
me, ' I took Watt to the inn ; I gave him all the 
whisky and porter he could drink and gat his 



KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS i:]^ 

promise to spare the birds.' The covey dis- 
appeared ; it must have been netted bodily. Watt 
was more indionant than Craigfie. Poachers had 
been poaching on the poacher's privileges of chase. 
He had accepted blackmail for the albinos and 
his honour was in question. He ran the offenders 
down at considerable trouble, scandal, and expense, 
and handed them over to justice. 

Craigie fell latterly on somewhat evil days, for 
he had trouble with his minister and the kirk 
session. Consequently his popularity declined 
with the tenant folk, who were zealous kirk-goers, 
and the whisky tap was turned off at his favourite 
resorts. Moreover, he was falling into the sere 
and yellow leaf, his eyes were growing dim, and 
his joints were stiffening. He could no longer 
leap the ditches or fly the tottering- dikes. Sooner 
or later the rheumatism must inevitably come up 
with the rustic who has set weather at defiance 
and seldom changed his clothes. Craigie was to 
be retired on a pension, and consented after much 
grumbling. For he had to confess, and it showed 
his constitutional reticence, that he was to have 
a home with a son who had made money in 
Australia, and had the grace not to be ashamed 
of a letterless father who had never corresponded 
with him for the best of reasons. He had all 
possible comforts in his closing years : how far 
he was happy is another question. When super- 
annuated judges or bishops stick to their benches. 



278 DAYS OF THE PAST 

often the mere love of lucre has little to do with 
their reluctance to retire. 

M'Intyre — that was not his real name — suc- 
ceeded Craigie retired. He was a man of very- 
different type and temper. Though of Highland 
breed he had migrated young, and to all intents 
was a Lowlander. It is five-and-forty years since 
I began the long and lasting friendship, and I re- 
member when I saw him first, how I was impressed 
by his fine presence and air of simple dignity. 
He stood well over six feet, and among the 
beaters at a battue he looked like a noble deer- 
hound in the scratch pack of the Highland fox- 
hunter. With his advent there was introduced a 
new system of preserving and regular night-watch- 
ing. He had a couple of aides sent out on outpost 
duty, and he drilled them thoroughly. You felt 
that M'Intyre was your equal — your superior in 
many things — and soon he was the valued friend 
of the family. The dogs and the boys took to 
him naturally. He had little trouble in breaking 
the dogs, for his methods were kindness and gentle 
firmness. One sharp word of command would 
check the wildest youngster in a mad burst, or 
bring the most self-v/illed old ruffian to heel. The 
boys of the house, through successive generations, 
came to look up to him and love him as a father, 
and the most anxious of mothers could safely trust 
him with their morals. The kennels and his cot- 
tage were a quarter of a mile from the mansion, the 



KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS 279 

path leading through the flower-gardens and the 
Httle coppice, with the Holy Well commemorating 
the site of an old hermitage, where a brown- 
speckled trout kept solitary state. If a boy was 
missing after breakfast, it was at the kennels he 
was sure to be found, somewhere between the 
ferret hutches and the row of beehives. Out of 
the shooting season a long stroll through fields 
and woods with M'Intyre was intoxicating joy. 
There was endless excitement in the bird-nesting 
in the fields and fallows, in brake and coppice ; in 
the hunting up the teal or waterhen in the sedges, 
or the quest after pheasant eggs in spinney or 
hedgerow in the springtime, when the trouble was 
to elude the watchful rooks. Our guide could tell 
all about their habits ; and there was seldom a 
migrant he could not recognise, or a skulker he 
could not identify by the note. 

His master had grown up with him, and they 
were close companions. Of the two, the keeper 
was scarcely the less welcome guest when they 
went the round of neighbouring houses in the 
shooting season. When he had organised the 
autumn shooting parties at home, it was pleasant 
to hear the hearty greetings of the gentlemen and 
to see the cordial clasp of the hands. No doubt 
he had handsome largesses in his time, for with 
frugality he left a snug little fortune. But his 
beloved master died before him and he never 
altogether got over it. In fullest mental power 



28o DAYS OF THE PAST 

the laird suddenly succumbed to an insidious brain 
attack. For weeks he lay between life and death ; 
though the end was certain it was long deferred. 
M'Intyre revolutionised all his habits. The man 
who only breathed freely in the open air, shut 
himself up in the sick chamber and became the 
assiduous nurse. He slept in the dressing-room, 
and through the day he was treading softly on 
stocking-soles or stooping tenderly over the sick 
pillow ; nor had he ever the satisfaction of being 
recognised, for the patient was in a stupor of 
unconsciousness. The watching, the worry, and 
the grief told on that strong constitution. He fell 
ill himself, and passed many a weary day in 
hospital, though his attentions were gratefully 
repaid and everything was done for his comfort, 
till at last he was carried home to pass from his 
cottage to the churchyard. 

Old Peter of Strathtay comes in somewhere 
between Craigie and M'Intyre. Like M'Intyre 
he was a familiar of the household, and had taken 
the exact measure of his old master's foot ; like 
Craigie he had the primitive habits and something 
of the stealthy gait of the savage. His back was 
bowed with bearing burdens of game, for he loved 
long solitary rambles and would sleep out of a 
night in a haystack or under a gravestone. His 
passion was night wandering ; his methods were 
those of the poacher, and his dogs had been 
broken to them. The old fellow took a fancy to 



KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS 281 

me, so sometimes I was privileged to accompany 
him ; and well I remember those sensational 
nights with the lessons to be learned from the 
wild book of nature. The nights, as he chose 
them, were generally starry, with fair moonlight, 
and the moon might be wading in watery clouds, 
with the sough of a sighing wind that threatened 
to bring up a rain burst. One night the moon 
was suddenly eclipsed ; half the heavens were 
overcast with what seemed the wings of some 
monstrous sea-fowl in rapid flight. Peter, like 
Craigie, had his inseparable attendants. The 
one-eyed old otter-hound gave a mournful growl, 
the limping terrier whimpered and tucked his tail 
between his legs. *It's likin' to be an ill night,' 
said Peter ; ' but God be praised, we 're no that far 
from shelter, for the auld kirk is hard by.' Though 
reputed to be haunted, it was one of Peter's 
favourite refuges, and there we sheltered, while 
the rain came down in torrents, in a low out- 
building, where the parishioners in former days 
used to keep watch against the resurrection men, 
when villains like Burke and Hare were driving 
their nefarious trade. There, making himself com- 
fortable with pipe and whisky flask, he curdled 
my blood with his soul-thrilling ghost stories, 
till when the storm had passed as Peter had 
foretold, my nerves were strung to a pitch that 
made me exceptionally impressionable. Yet it 
was a cheery change to emerge into starlight and 



282 DAYS OF THE PAST 

moonlight from the gloom and the ghoulish 
tales ; though all the night watchers and the 
night walkers seemed to have been roused into life 
and action. The bats that had been clinging to 
the kirk rafters in the daytime came flapping 
across our faces, and swooping down on my white 
collar like gulls on a winged companion. The 
kirk owls were vociferous, and then we came 
across their silken-winged congeries in the sylvan 
glades we threaded. We heard the bark of the 
wandering fox ; but that is one of the most 
common of nocturnal sounds. Sometimes it was 
answered by the bay of the watch dog at the 
homestead or the yelping of the cottage cur. 

Once — it was not on that night, but on another — 
I remember Peter laying his hand on my arm. We 
paused and listened ; then I heard the surly grunt as 
of a pig or pigling : it was in a mossy glade, honey- 
combed with rabbit holes and bestrewed with beech- 
nuts. Then emerged from a bramble thicket a 
family party, looking much what I should imagine 
a train of South American peccaries to be. A 
venerable dog badger headed the procession, 
grunting stertorously and industriously grubbing. 
The dogs, hushed by an uplifted hand, were 
trembling with excitement. His abstraction was 
complete, when he suddenly got a whiff of our 
wind, sniffed, snorted, and would have scuttled, 
but Peter's gun was at his shoulder and the grey 
patriarch rolled over. Peter opined * that the beast 



KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS 28 



:> 



was no that hurtful, though he had a keen nose for 
the eggs o' pheesan or palrtrick ' ; but Peter, Hke 
his grizzled otter hound, was death on anything- in 
the shape of vermin from fox or marten cat to 
the generally innocuous hedgehog. 

Peter, though bearing a Highland name, and 
domesticated on the Highland border, was Lowland 
born and bred. The genuine Highland keepers, 
guardians of the wild deer-forests and solitary 
wastes, were of a different stamp. They were 
generally reserved and seldom garrulous, save 
when under the influence of good fellowship and 
fiery toddy. Though they might discourse in 
the Saxon fluently, it was a foreign tongue ; for 
the most part they thought in the native Gaelic, 
and lisped with an accent of which they were shyly 
self-conscious. Some of them had ^ot so used to 
self-communion in the solitudes, that they had 
acquired a habit of thinking aloud, which they 
could not always repress. Black John had found 
a landward berth in a forest on the marches of 
Ross and Sutherland, though he had been bred a 
fisherman in the Lewis and had always a craving 
for the sea. He had come, as many others of the 
gillies, from the herring fishing to take service on 
the hill for a single season ; but unlike most of the 
islesmen be became a fixture, always protesting his 
intention to flit. The fact was, he had got into 
trouble poaching on the Long Island, and the 
poaching virus was in his blood. His master soon 



284 DAYS OF THE PAST 

learned his worth, for he had the eye of a falcon, 
the scent of a sleuth-hound, an instinct for the 
wiles and strategy of the deer, with the weather 
knowledge of a black-faced ram or an old grouse 
cock. He was a far safer guide than the glass as 
to what the morrow was likely to bring forth. 
There that prescience was of exceptional impor- 
tance, for the forest was much mixed up with those 
surrounding it. Dogs were seldom or never used ; 
partly because the lessees were deadly shots, 
principally because they could not afford to scare 
the deer. The forest was full of fine feeding in 
sheltered corries, and many a herd would migrate 
thither to stuff to repletion. 

John was habitually silent, seemingly sullen, but 
there were times when he would become expansive. 
As when a difficult stalk had been triumphantly 
accomplished, when the deer had been gralloched 
and admired, and the flasks had gone round with 
compliments and congratulations. Keeping house 
alone through the winter in the deserted lodge he 
was given to brooding, but he had the rude piety 
of the fervid Celtic temperament, and his mind was 
a dark reservoir of legends and superstitions. 
Once the floodgates were opened ever so little, 
they came with a rush. A Catholic by creed, he 
was something of a pagan. Professing unbelief 
in them, he would weave weird fancies and tell 
strange tales of the monsters said to lurk in the 
depths of bottomless lakes, of witches — probably 



KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS 285 

skeins of wild geese — flitting overhead with un- 
earthly screeches on the wings of the storm, and of 
corpses of notorious evil livers which had played 
blood-curdling cantrips when the door of the 
deathchamber had been left ajar and the due pre- 
cautions against the powers of hell had been 
neglected. When I have heard him croaking 
them out, I have been reminded of Southey s soul- 
thrilling ballad of ' The Old Woman of Berkeley.' 
Once wound up the way to keep him going 
was a liberal supply of whisky. He was a hard 
drinker, but could carry any quantity of liquor 
discreetly, and as his comrade Donald used 
enviously to remark, 'John was never a hair the 
waur.' John was a confirmed mysogynist ; he 
delighted in a dance, but it was he who emphati- 
cally expressed the conviction, that it was * the 
weemen that aye spiled a ball.' John sulked and 
smoked over the peat-fire through the winter. 
Donald, who lived with his wife in a snug cottage 
on the high road, was scandalously neglectful of 
his domestic ties. Of a winter evening, and too 
often in the summer time, he was to be found 
either at the old toll bar, a chartered gossip shop, 
where his habitual crony was a convivial road- 
mender, or at the inn, a couple of miles down the 
strath, a favourite stopping-place of drovers and 
pedlers. John would only come out with his stories 
on occasions ; Donald was always to be drawn. 
He came of a sporting race of lax principles and 



286 DAYS OF THE PAST 

predatory habits. His father, who had been head- 
keeper and henchman of the laird in the savage 
Torridon district, where the bastions and but- 
tresses of granite have been worn into rifts and 
caves in course of ages by the Atlantic surges, 
could tell of the times when the king's warrant 
scarcely ran there. He had been at the making of 
the first road, not much more than seventy years 
before, which first opened up communications. 
That revolutionary improvement was far from 
welcome to men who eked out a precarious subsist- 
ence by smuggling, poaching, and illicit distilling. 
It brought the sheriff, the revenue officer, and the 
ofaupfer to their doors. As a child Donald had sat 
at the feet of a orandfather who could tell of the 
golden age. The son of the second generation 
had been half-reclaimed when taken into the laird's 
service, but the patriarch had used to go out with 
the bands of free shots, who roamed the wastes in 
such strength that the most daring of foresters dared 
not mell or meddle with them. They lay out in their 
plaids, they levied contributions on the shepherds, 
or bartered muirfowl and venison for meal and 
mutton. 

Likely enough Donald embroidered romances 
that had lost nothing in the relation. An inimit- 
able raconteur, he had the fire and flow of the 
Neapolitan improvisators Probably he was never 
strictly veracious when he recounted adventures of 
his own ; but at least he gave them an air of vivid 



KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS 287 

realism, as he struck the attitudes and rehearsed 
the scenes. He told of marvellous escapes when 
lost in the mists or blinding snow-drift — but these 
are frequent experiences of all hillmen. Of how he 
was most nearly brought to death's door when a 
cairn of loose stones came down in a landslip — he 
called it an earthquake — where he lay for four-and- 
twenty hours with a broken ankle, hearing at last 
the shouts of a search party, but fearing that his 
own response was too feeble to attract their atten- 
tion. It was only when he was silenced, and in the 
depths of despair, that a far-ranging collie smelt 
him out. But the tragedy that brought tears to his 
eyes was the fate of a favourite dog. The poor 
brute in eager pursuit of a wounded fox, had got 
' rock fast ' on the ledge of a precipice where there 
was no turning back ; and Donald, after being 
fruitlessly lowered over the beetling cliffs, had to 
abandon the helpless Bran to his fate, and to listen 
day after day to piteous appeals, becoming fainter 
and fainter as strength ebbed away. 

Donald's stories carry me south to very different 
scenes in the Isle of Purbeck. Burdon, hereditary 
keeper on a broad Dorsetshire estate, stretching 
seaward to the chalk downs and St. Alban's Head, 
had many a tale to tell, handed down from his 
fathers, of smugglers and wreckers, of signal lights 
flashing out from solitary homesteads or the hovels 
of half-savage squatters, of trains of horses with 
clanking chains, winding up on the chalk-tracks 



288 DAYS OF THE PAST 

throuo-h the Combes, and of wrecks of noble 
merchantmen like the Halsewell, East Indiaman, 
when the countryside from far and near turned out 
to save life or look out for salvage. Burdon was 
the type of the portly English yeoman, broad in 
the shoulders and broader in the beam ; the brass 
buttons of his coat behind were shining oases in 
a vast expanse of weather-worn velveteen. Seen 
from the front his corporation was Falstaffian, and 
he had taken life luxuriously from the cradle. His 
cottage, sheltering under a clump of pines, was such 
a combination of old English quaintness and snug- 
ness as Birkett Foster delighted to paint. The 
incessant yelping from the adjacent kennels — they 
included a boisterous little pack of dwarf beagles 
which would have sent Carlyle into a lunatic 
asylum in a week — was music to his accustomed 
ears and lulled him peacefully to sleep. Not that 
he needed lulling, for his constitution was somnifer- 
ous. He has been seen to drop off to sleep on his 
sturdy legs after a solid luncheon, as he was 
watching the dogs working in the turnips, and when 
he sat of a Sunday under his master, a squire- 
parson, had he not been privileged, his stentorian 
snores would have scandalised the small congrega- 
tion. His cottage showed every sign of free 
housekeeping — huge, home-baked loaves in the 
cupboard, flitches in the chimney corner, a cask of 
strong home-brewed ale from the Hall always on 
strike. The living-room, decorated in sylvan 



KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS 289 

fashion, was in excellent taste. Dressed skins did 
duty for carpet and hearthrug. These could be 
taken up and shaken, when he came stumping in 
with muddy boots. Guns, traps, and game-bags 
adorned the walls, and on the shelves were such 
zoological and ornithological curiosities as silvered 
pheasants, pied badgers, and phenomenal pikes. 
On the gable and on the pollarded elm, hard by, 
were mouldering Montfaucons of gibbeted vermin. 
Burdon, with all his love of ease, had not been 
averse to a rough and tumble in his youth, but 
latterly he had devolved the duties of night watch- 
ing on his deputies. Besides the corpulence and 
shortened wind which made it a stiff business at 
the best of times to breast the chalk hills, he went 
with a halting limp, the souvenir of an affair with 
poachers. He had been pitched down a chalk-pit, 
where he was left for dead, and dead he nearly was 
when picked up some twelve hours afterwards. 

Punctually each morning he went through the 
ceremony of going to the gun-room for the orders 
he seldom got and never desired. As punctually 
he adjourned to the servants' hall to share a 
tankard with the old butler. He had two pro- 
mising lads who were being brought up to the 
ancestral calling. Both were keen sportsmen and 
quick shots. But while Samuel was told off to 
superintend the marking and signalling — indis- 
pensable in that country of meadow and moor, 
chequered with copses and crossed by chalk- 

T 



290 DAYS OF THE PAST 

ridges — Garge's business was to follow hard on 
the guns, with a greybeard of the home-brewed 
slung to his shoulders. Ascetic athletes assure us 
that cold tea is the best thing in the world to 
walk on. It may be so, but for myself, in the 
North, I have always stuck to spring water laced 
with whisky, and though I should not recommend 
strong Dorsetshire ale as a liquor to train on, 
I never found it throw me much out of condition. 
Anyhow Burdon had flourished on it, and in the 
days of one's youth, with a superabundance of 
exercise, you could venture safely on any liberties. 
There was nothing we liked better than to turn 
into the keeper's cottage, when homeward bound 
after a long day in the coverts, and gratify his good 
lady by reckless indulgence in tea with the richest 
of Dorsetshire cream and with the golden butter 
steaming on the cakes she brought us hissing hot 
from the griddle. We left the dinner to take care 
of itself, nor was the confidence often misplaced. 
Peace to the memories of that kindly couple : they 
sleep under the yew trees outside the little church 
where Burdon was used to snore and slumber. 



CHAPTER XV 

THE SHEPHERDS AND THE POACHERS 

I HAVE made friends with sundry Highland shep- 
herds, and have a great regard for them, and much 
sympathy with their hard and sohtary hves. The 
sweetest of tempers would ^e apt to turn sour 
in the lonely shealing, isolated from all human 
companionship, with its manifold cares and respon- 
sibilities, with the ceaseless strain on the nerves. 
As a rule the shepherds hasten to get married, but 
imagine the lot of the celibate, with no company 
but his collies. His evensong as he goes home 
in the gloaming, is the scream of the eagle or the 
croak of the raven, and through the nights those 
dogs of his are baying the moon or answering the 
challenge of the prowling fox. Weary and soaked 
to the skin, he has to do his own cooking, and as 
he has neither leisure nor energy to ' shift his 
clothes,' no wonder rheumatics steals upon him 
early. He knows the lie of the land well, but 
many a time when belated in darkness or mists, 
he has to sleep out in some cleft of the rock, on 
a couch of damp heather shoots with his plaid for 
a coverlet. He is answerable for the sheep, which 



292 DAYS OF THE PAST 

are periodically mustered and numbered. Reading 
the weather like a book, in late autumn he sees the 
signs of a 'breeding storm,' and whistling to his 
dogs he wanders forth to head back the sheep from 
the heights to the hollows. The sea-fowl with 
wild cries are drifting landward, the grouse are 
restless, and, surest symptom of all, the fox with 
light bounds is hurrying to his home in the cairn, 
stopping from time to time to prick his ears and 
listen. The storm bursts and the rain descends 
in torrents : all the more reason for the shepherd 
going forward, for he knows that on the morrow 
there will have been drownings in the strath, and 
that eagles and ravens will be battening on the 
'braxie.' He does what may be done before dark- 
ness settles down, and then if it be possible, he 
would get back to his fireless fireside. But each 
burn and rill is rising in spate, and the stream from 
which he fills his water-butt is half breast high and 
raging furiously when he gropes his way to the 
post that marks the ford and the stepping-stones. 
Within a gunshot of supper and the box-bed, he 
may have to curl up in the moss flow, with his 
whimpering dogs, famished and shivering. 

Yet that is a trifle to being abroad in the winter 
blizzards, when the flock may be smothered in the 
snowdrifts. The bitter wind pierces through the 
thickest clothing, and he is likely enough to get 
lost in the blinding snowflakes. A slip on the 
rocks may sprain an ankle, or treading carefully as 



SHEPHERDS AND POACHERS 293 

he may, he may fall into a treacherous snow- 
wreath. Once caught to the armpits, there is 
slight chance of extrication. All things considered, 
it is wonderful that the casualties come so seldom, 
and that, save in exceptional cases and in the 
lambing season, so few of the sheep are missing. 
These sheep are extraordinarily hardy, and seldom 
succumb to anything but suffocation. There is 
little to choose between the Highland black-faced 
with the ' snuff-mull ' curled horns and the aliens 
of southern breed. Both wear warm under-vests 
of close wool, with shaggy overcoats as impervious 
as Irish frieze. They can exist for days on starva- 
tion fare, and like the deer have an instinct for 
scraping among the snow, where they are likely 
to get at the coarse but nutritious herbage. Where 
the shepherd's strength is taxed to the utmost, is 
in such a storm as is described on Exmoor in 
Lorna Doone, and in the Highlands he has to go 
far further afield than Jan Ridd, to dig into the 
drifts and save the survivors. 

The shepherd has other enemies to fight than 
the snow and the rain floods. I do not believe 
foxes or eagles do much harm to the old sheep, 
but they are terribly destructive in the lambing 
season. All the more, that since the extension of 
the deer forests, the eagles have been generally 
strictly preserved, which is gratifying from the 
picturesque point of view. But if a sheep is 
crippled or ailing, the eagle is always on the look- 



294 DAYS OF THE PAST 

out, guided by the ravens and hooded crows. For 
the eagle is the most voracious of gluttons, and the 
best chance of the shepherd taking his revenge, is 
when he weathers on him when o-oroed to the beak 
with drowned mutton. Then the prince of the air 
and the mountains may be knocked senseless with 
the staff. It is not so easy to circumvent the fleet 
and wily fox, who does infinitely more harm. He 
has his lair in the recesses of the half-impregnable 
cairn, laughs at the comparative lumbering of the 
swiftest collies, and is only to be forced from his 
hold by varmint terriers. Consequently none of 
his rare visitors is more welcome to the shepherd 
than the professional fox-hunter with his mixed 
pack. With the * tail ' of his professional dogs 
come keepers and gillies, each with his own canine 
attendants ; and then dens are stormed, and there 
may be merciless slaughter of prolific vixens with 
their bloodthirsty litters. 

The keepers should be as welcome as the fox- 
hunter, and so they often are and always ought to 
be. Any sensible man must come to that con- 
clusion when he sees the refuse of the fox's larder 
on the stone-slip from the cairn or on the ledge of 
the cliff. There is a blending of feathers, fur, and 
wool — sometimes, even the relics of sea-trout and 
salmon. The fox is the common enemy who 
should bring keeper and shepherd together ; but 
though the keeper may have as much at stake, it is 
the shepherd who commands the situation. With 



SHEPHERDS AND POACHERS 295 

the forest he has no concern, but on the moor he 
is practically master. So a diplomatic and smooth- 
spoken head-keeper is invaluable, for if he once 
gets to feud with the guardian of the sheep, it is a 
very one-sided affair. The shepherd is out early 
and late, with his keen-scentinsf dog-s ranofing- 
before him. He knows the nesting-place of each 
brood of grouse or blackgame, and can net the 
young coveys, if so disposed. Should he scorn 
to make a profit of the quarrel as is often the 
case, if 'his back has been set up,' he can mali- 
ciously smash the eggs. A good deal of netting of 
the heather goes on in the second week of August, 
when the birds are smuggled to the South which 
are sold at the poulterers' on the Twelfth. Nor- 
wegian they are called : credat Judceus, for the 
British Isles have a monopoly of the red grouse. 
Too often, it is matter of certainty that the shep- 
herds must be in league with the poachers, for they 
are the best of all watchers, when you enlist their 
friendly assistance. 

And that is very easily done, for, take them all in 
all, they are an honest and self-respecting set of 
men. Many a weary league from the kirk, their 
Sunday reading is often the Bible and the Pilgrims 
Progress. The shepherd with his trials and 
troubles is naturally short in the temper. If he is 
misanthropic, it is because he so seldom sets eyes 
on a fellow creature. But only take him in the 
right way, and he is the most kindly of hosts and 



296 DAYS OF THE PAST 

the most friendly of companions. The diplomatic 
keeper drops in with a whisky bottle in the game- 
bag, and the latest copies of the county paper in 
his pocket. He brings the freshest gossip from 
market or kirkyard ; he discusses the price and 
prospects of wool, and professes to have at his 
finger ends the last quotations for ewes or wethers 
from the sale-yards of Aberdeen or the Falkirk 
Tryste. A morning call is especially welcome, and 
in confidential chat on questions of heather burn- 
ing, the keeper can twist his host round his finger, 
much to their mutual advantage. 

But the day to be marked with a white stone in 
the shepherd's calendar is when the shooting lessee 
— stranger though he may be — who has previously 
established himself in favour, graces the shealing 
with his presence. On the first visit the host was 
probably as 'stand-off' as his dogs, who jumped 
up on the turf-sodden roof to yelp savagely at the 
sportsman's setters. But when the shepherd finds 
that his visitor pulls off his stalking cap as he 
stoops under the lintel and shows no shadow of 
condescension, he meets him with the frank 
cordiality of a gentleman ; and when one of these 
solitaires gets into a flow of talk, it would be 
hard to find a more entertaining companion. 
Condemned in ordinary to silence they meditate 
the more ; they surprise you with startlingly 
original sentiments, and the commonplaces and 
ordinary incidents of their daily lives are matter 



SHEPHERDS AND POACHERS 297 

for thrilling romances. The morning call is all 
very well, but I must say it is somewhat trying to 
accept a night's quarters. Once I taxed the 
hospitality of Angus Chisholm, a special friend, 
and I never cared to repeat the experiment. 
Angus was capital company, but he was a 
bachelor and no hand at cookery. The slices of 
the mutton ham were scorched and impregnated 
with peat smoke ; the braxie he pressed on me as 
a special delicacy was diabolically ' green ' ; it took 
all my wit and tact to pass it down to the retriever 
at my feet ; and the spirits which were his pride, if 
I was not greatly mistaken, had come fresh from an 
illicit still. When it came to turning in, the sheets 
on the bed he insisted on resigning had not even 
the delusive purity of the cottage where there is a 
housewife. I knew well that the vermin would be 
on the rampage, and there I drew the line, at the 
risk of hurting his feelings. As it was, after the 
whisky I had a troubled night on the settle, en- 
veloped in plaids and sheepskins. 

Angus was a magnificent fellow, but he went 
with a limp, the souvenir of a terrible experience. 
In an iron frost he slipped — fortunately near his 
own door — and broke an ankle. The cold was 
intense, the pain was severe, the limb swelled to 
portentous size, he was miles away from help of 
any kind, and twenty or more from a doctor. For 
three days and nights he lay untended, his body 
racked with pain, and his mind with anxiety for 



298 DAYS OF THE PAST 

the flock left shepherdless. He dragged himself 
out to the peat stack for fuel ; he repeatedly re- 
kindled the smouldering peats, ' slooking ' handfuls 
of meal in lukewarm water. Sometimes he slept, 
and occasionally he swooned, not knowing how 
long he had lain in unconsciousness. Giving him- 
self up for lost he made a manful fight, and rescue 
came when it could be least expected. A belated 
poacher tried the door and found Angus in a 
' dwam,' with a collie stretched on top of him. He 
was a handy rascal ; put things shipshape as far as 
possible, fomented the limb, fed the patient, applied 
the whisky freely — externally and internally — and 
with daybreak hurried off to seek for the surgeon. 
Angus's grand constitution stood him in good stead, 
and except for that limp, as he said himself, 'he 
was never a hair the waur.' 

The shepherds of the olden time and the hill 
crofters, for fear, favour, or kinship, used to stand 
in with the poachers. Like the scattered keepers 
they had little choice when the country was terror- 
ised by roving bands, or by athletic stalkers of 
local fame who preferred to work singlehanded. 
It was in the cottage of a weather-beaten veteran, 
who by the way could tell another thrilling story 
of a wife lying unburied for a fortnight in a 
memorable snowstorm, that I was privileged to 
' become acquent ' with big Duncan Mackay. 
Duncan Mohr, as he was called, had been a 
mighty man of mark and muscle. Though 



SHEPHERDS AND POACHERS 299 

advanced in years, no two of the agents of the 
law would have much cared to tackle him. He 
had always been generous of gifts which cost him 
nothing but powder and shot, and many a bless- 
ing was invoked on his head by the widows, the 
orphans, and the ailing. I doubt not he kept his 
good friend the shepherd well supplied with muir- 
fowl, hill-hares, and shoulders of venison. Had 
there been elections for parish councils in those 
days he would have walked in easily at the head 
of the poll. For there was no denying that 
Duncan was the most munificent of poachers. His 
story is typical of hill society as it once was. He 
might have lived happy in the universal respect of 
his neighbours, but with Duncan, as with all men, 
there was a rift in the lute. Partly from fear and 
partly from good fellowship the keepers of the 
chief never 'steered ' him. It is true they had to 
watch many a league of hill and many a mile of 
half-hidden salmon water, and, as Duncan had 
small difficulty in dodging them, his sport became 
unpalatably tame. Sometimes when Satan got the 
upper hand, he would actually throw himself across 
their path, but his friends were blind, or deaf to 
the gun-reports, and Duncan was far from a well- 
contented man. 

Highland property rose in the market and the 
chieftain was tempted to sell. Duncan heard the 
news with sorrow, and indeed his lamentations 
were so loud that his motives were suspected. 



300 DAYS OF THE PAST 

The ungrateful hill folk declared that the old 
stalker was grieving at the prospects of a stricter 
rule. It was rumoured that the Southerner who 
had bought the estates was to begin with sweeping 
chano'es. He went about the revolution orener- 

o o 

ously enough. The ancient keepers were to be 
pensioned, but they were to be replaced by a corps 
of zealous strangers. As the ill news spread, 
Duncan brightened up. His chance had come 
and he might sate himself with risks and adven- 
tures. No need now to thrust himself on the 
keepers' notice ; the game was all the other way. 
His cottag-e was watched and his outofoinofs were 
shadowed. With all his native gifts on the alert, 
he found it hard to keep his own larder supplied 
with game ; his pride was hurt and necessarily his 
benefactions were restricted. It was the latter 
trouble he felt most acutely. Many a night he 
slept out on the heather in his plaid, for fear of 
compromising his friends by seeking shelter in 
some secluded bothy. He even took to reducing 
his charges of powder, thereby increasing the 
trouble of his stalking, and — what he regretted still 
more — the suffering of the wounded deer. 

He grumbled, of course, but on the whole he 
enjoyed it. Now there was no lack of sensation ; 
there was the double zest of hunting and being 
hunted. Then, to cut the story short, came an 
incident which again changed the course of his 
career. The new proprietor, though a novice at 



SHEPHERDS AND POACHERS 301 

the deer -stalking, was as zealous on sport as 
himself and as free handed. Duncan could not 
help admiring him, for like the last Glengarry of 
famous memory though lacking his forest craft, he 
would go on the deer path for a day or more, alone 
and unattended. Naturally, he generally came 
home empty handed, which, as Duncan explained, 
was the more to his credit. One dark autumn 
evening Duncan had actually gone astray in the 
gathering gloaming and drifting mists. He 
deemed himself lucky when he struck a torrent 
bed in a corrie which must lead him down to the 
strath. Among treacherous land-slides and rugged 
boulders, with the bit burn he could not see 
murmuring guidance in the blackness, he heard 
groans and uncanny speech, as of some wandering 
soul in pain. It was a mischancy place, Duncan 
was superstitious, and more than inclined to take 
to the hill again. But like Rab Tull in The 
Antiquary, he kept a Highland heart, said a bit of 
a prayer, and held forward. In the burn bed he 
picked up the new proprietor, who had had an 
ugly fall and was badly hurt. Duncan, who played 
the Good Samaritan, made light of the rescue, but 
the grateful Saxon thought otherwise. And his 
gratitude took the unwelcome form of giving per- 
emptory orders that his preserver was to have free 
licence and liberty. Duncan was a saddened man 
when I met him. He seldom cared to take down 
rifle or rod : he had gained flesh but fallen off in 



302 DAYS OF THE PAST 

spirit and sinew. Yet he liked the new lord of the 
soil so well, that shortly afterwards he conde- 
scended to ask a favour. It was a small loan to 
help him to emigrate to join a kinsman in North 
Western Canada, which he faithfully promised to 
repay. So the old poacher when well on in the 
seventies left his native glen, simply because 
agreeable poaching had become impossible. 

Duncan Mohr had his counterpart in Kerry. In 
West Ireland, where the law was even weaker, 
there were fewer temptations. On the stretches 
of barren hill the grouse were kept down by the 
hawks and the hooded crows. On the wide moor- 
lands with their quaking bogs, there was little to, 
be shot save duck and snipe. Though the red 
deer still ranged the Kerry hills, there were no 
regular forests. Moreover the lawless occupants 
of lonely cabins were seldom rich enough to buy 
a fowling - piece or pay for powder and shot. 
Dragging a salmon pool or spearing the fish by 
torchlight was another matter. Yet many a law- 
less poacher has been bred in the far West, and 
the Irish Celt has an insinuating impudence of 
his own, to which his graver Gaelic cousin can 
make no pretension. A Kerry landlord was sorely 
troubled in that way by a veteran dependent for 
whom he had a real esteem. Mister Spillane — he 
was no kin to a well-known Killarney guide — 
had been born on the estate and engaged as a 
supernumerary on the keeper's staff, before he 



SHEPHERDS AND POACHERS 303 

listed. With a regiment in India his sporting 
aptitudes recommended him to a notable regi- 
mental Nimrod who took Spillane for his servant 
and constant attendant in shooting expeditions. 
No Zouave was more resourceful in foraging for the 
camp kettles. Spillane came back to his ancestral 
glens with a pension and settled in a cottage near 
the Castle. He was grateful for free quarters and 
the run of the Castle kitchen. And he showed his 
gratitude by killing salmon, when there were any 
to be caught, and leaving them at the back door of 
the big house with compliments and kindly wishes. 
In vain the master expostulated, swore, argued, 
and even entreated. He pointed out that his best 
water was often spoiled for himself and his guests. 
Spillane was smiling, good-natured, and agreeably 
obtuse. ' Sure, your honour, if I knew that you or 
any of the company were to be out, it 's always 
glad and willin' I would be to lave the pools for 
ye.' At last the good-natured baronet gave him 
up as hopeless, and, being loath to resort to 
eviction, resigned himself to grin and bear it. 
Now the last of that generation of wild free-shots 
is gone, and we shall never look upon their like 
again. 



CHAPTER XVI 

THE LAST OF THE ROAD 

I SAW the last of the road before it was superseded 
by the rail. Each year the pace has been growing 
faster ; flying Scotchmen and flying Irishmen with 
few stoppages have been accelerated ; now you 
may take your meals leisurely in Pulman dining- 
cars, and the blood horse, the pride and boast of 
England, is giving way to the motor car, the 
abomination of the road. I have been gradually 
converted from a progressive Conservative into a 
reactionary old Tory. The pace has been getting 
too fast to last, and must surely result in crash and 
catastrophe. Telegraph, telephone, and wireless 
telegraphy have intensified the hard struggle for 
life, while Krupp and Whitehead, Vickers, Maxim 
and Company, with all the inventors of explosives, 
scattering mutilation broadcast, have added im- 
measurably to the horrors of death. But I grow 
rhapsodical and sentimental. Nevertheless, senti- 
ment will come in, when I recall, in the rose- 
coloured lights of old memories, the glories of the 
old coaching days. As * Nimrod ' remarks in his 
famous Quarterly article, roads and coaching had 
come to perfection just as the latter ceased to exist. 

304 



THE LAST OF THE ROAD 305 

Some forty years ago, when shooting in Stafford- 
shire, I remember being struck by a vast range of 
empty stabling, with an imposing pile of Georgian 
building, which had once been a busy posting 
centre, giving occupation to hundreds and enrich- 
ing the farmers far and near. A small tenant 
lived in a corner of the old mansion, the roofs of 
the stabling were falling in, though owned by one 
of the most liberal of noblemen, and silence reigned 
in the weed-grown yard, which used to be voci- 
ferous with the shout of ' first pair out.' Almost 
as pathetic are the memories of the old London 
coaching houses. Where and what are the hostel- 
ries now, whence coaches scattered in all directions? 
The Bull and Mouth, with its long galleries of 
subterraneous stabling, associated of old with the 
despatch of the mails, has been swallowed by the 
General Post Office. The Saracen's Head, Mr. 
Squeers's house of call, vanished with the construc- 
tion of the Holborn Viaduct. The Belle Sauvage, 
where old Mr. Weller used to put up, is the head- 
quarters of an enterprising publishing firm. Tempora 
mutantur. The Gloucester Coffee-house is gone, 
where coaches on the western roads would spare 
half a minute to pick up west-end passengers, and 
Hatchett's, the White Horse Cellar, has changed 
character and been fashionably transmogrified 
out of all knowledge. I used to know Hatchett's 
well, in the interval between the demise of the 
professional coaching and the birth of the amateurs. 

u 



3o6 DAYS OF THE PAST 

When bachelor hotels were scarce in London, you 
got a comfortable and tolerably cheerful bedroom 
there. There was less to be said — I have said it 
already — in favour of the coffee-room, yet I liked 
it for its associations with the romance of the past. 
You thought of the scrambles before break of day, 
when waiting travellers hustled for a place at the 
fire, bolting the scorched toast and choking over 
scalding coffee. Or of the evenings when, chilled to 
the bone, they were helped "down by the ladder, to 
feel their frozen feet, and find a lumbering hackney 
coach to reach distant quarters in a December fog. 
It is a blessed thing that, in recalling the past, 
we are inclined to ignore the discomforts and only 
remember the pleasures. The walls of many a 
country coffee-room and parlour are still adorned 
with Fore's admirably graphic sporting sketches. 
In these both sorrows and joys are reflected. You 
see the mails loading for the night journey in the 
yards of the Swan with Two Necks or the Bull 
and Mouth, the passengers, in top hats and the 
tightest of overcoats, nerving themselves for the 
ordeal they regard with apprehension. You see 
with sympathetic exhilaration the coachman spring- 
ing his lively team of bays, with glistening coats 
and sinews like whipcord, over Hartford Bottom to 
get a few spare minutes in hand against casualties. 
You see the up-and-down ' Quicksilvers,' keeping 
time to the minute, exchanging flying salutations 
as they cross in the deep cutting, illuminated by 



THE LAST OF THE ROAD 2>oi 

the reflected blaze of the side-lamps. Then you 
have the grimmer side of the pictures, the hard- 
ships, the hazards, and the spice of veritable peril. 
The coach has charged an unopened turnpike in 
the fog, for the guard has got astray in his bearings, 
or the turnpike man has been deaf to the horn. 
The leaders are down in the shivered timber, one 
of the wheelers is plunging on the top of them, and 
we can fancy the feelings of the nervous passenger 
on the box seat who is screaming in chorus with 
the old lady inside. Or we see in the memorable 
storm of 1836, both Holyhead mails half buried in 
the snow, a chariot with luckless ladies within 
being steadily submerged in the drifts, and the 
coachman of the up-mail, who has rashly jumped 
down, engulphed to his armpits, and helplessly en- 
cumbered with innumerable box-coats. The euard, 
with prompt decision, is going off with the other 
wheeler and the post bags, but what must the 
shivering passengers go through before they are 
again in blissful communication with fire, food, 
and civilisation } 

As for the disagreeables, perhaps the most un- 
pleasant of all was that unholy hour of the early 
start. Things were not quite so bad as in the times 
of Colonel Hawker. The colonel, indefatigably 
energetic, though suffering from an old wound and 
much of a inalade imagmaire, curious in pills and 
patent medicines, is always being called at 4 a.m., 
or taking a hurried header into damp sheets, before 



3o8 DAYS OF THE PAST 

beinof roused aoain to re-establish connections. 
But they were bad enough, even in my boyhood. 
In winter the outsider started thoroughly chilled, 
and had never a chance of getting- warm. Our 
grandfathers, going on the principle of the survival 
of the fittest, had taken neither luxurious nor reason- 
able precautions against cold, and we of another 
generation, bred in their Spartan school, were 
following the fashion. Ulsters and railway rugs 
had not been invented, and the first of the looser 
and more comfortable innovations were the Inver- 
ness cape and the South American poncho. The 
burly coachman might envelop himself in coats and 
capes till he was guaranteed against any ordinary 
upset, though helpless if he were pitched head fore- 
most into snow. The ordinary traveller wore no- 
thing beyond the everyday winter walking clothes. 
The Duke of Beaufort, by an exceptional instance 
of astuteness, once brought a horse rug, to the envy 
of his fellow-passengers, when travelling as a lightly 
clad schoolboy from Brighton to Badminton. Tom 
Brown was a type of the traveller of those days, 
and Tom was the son of a wealthy squire and the 
darling of a doting mother. He had nothing where- 
with to fight the cold but a tight-buttoned Peter- 
sham : and so I have fought frost and bitter North 
Sea breezes myself, when sitting crumpled up and 
crouchinof behind the coachman's back on the roof 
of Royal Mail or * Defiance.' Serious smashes were 
comparatively rare, but drowsiness was a danger 



THE LAST OF THE ROAD 309 

difficult to guard against. The outsiders on the 
seats behind the coach-box or facing the guard were 
hanging between earth and heaven. One foot was 
on the slippery straw on the footboard, the other 
often dangling in space. Even when wide awake, 
a lurch might prove awkward ; and there were sharp 
corners in the narrow streets of many an antiquated 
borough town, where the top-heavy vehicle took a 
perilous swing. When you began to nod towards 
nightfall, or dropped into a snooze in the small 
hours, you were sitting in the very shadow of Death. 
On the box you were somewhat safer, for you were 
under the eye of the experienced coachman. In 
later days when going north for salmon-fishing 
or grouse-shooting, travelling outside through the 
night from Aberdeen, I used to catch at Inverness 
the northern mail for Tain or Dingwall. One 
glorious spring morning I scrambled up beside the 
driver, an old acquaintance. Had I refreshed my- 
self with laudanum instead of rum and milk, I could 
not have felt more sleepy. It is a grand bit of gallop- 
ing ground that skirts the firth, and my friend put 
his horses along. The ocean ozone, laden with the 
intoxicating fragrance of the sea-wrack, might have 
lulled a victim of chronic insomnia, and if the 
driver's elbow had not been kept continually in my 
ribs, I should certainly have been a subject for the 
coroner, had there been coroners' inquests to the 
north of the Tweed. 

In winter or rough weather there was a choice of 



3IO DAYS OF THE PAST 

discomforts, but, perhaps, on the whole the inside 
may have been preferable, though it was a case of 
tight packing in mixed company. You might have 
the agreeable society of the most fascinating of her 
sex. But it was much more likely that luck would 
be against you, with a corpulent lady by your side 
and a gouty gentleman opposite. I remember one 
bloated land agent, notorious for good living and 
always on the road in Kincardine and Angus. He 
had the consideration to pay for two places, yet 
his portentous bulk made his advent a terror to his 
opposites. Difficulties would always arise about 
dovetailing the legs, to use a familiar Americanism, 
and any movement to get at the pocket-handker- 
chief would provoke sulks and scowls or shrill 
remonstrances. You ran the ascending scale in 
sensations of discomfort,' from pins and needles in 
the legs to agonising cramps. There might be the 
man with the hacking cough or the mother with the 
squalling baby, with an unpleasant habit of being 
coach sick. The nets suspended from the roof 
were bulging with loose parcels and umbrellas. 
The space below the seats was encroached upon 
with the fore and hind boots, for each cubic inch 
had been economised. The side pockets were 
stuffed with bottles and packets of cakes and 
sandwiches. There was a prevailing odour of spirits 
and peppermint drops, and the loose straw that 
carpeted the bottom was fusty and often damp. It 
was not the accommodation of a Pullman dining- 



THE LAST OF THE ROAD 311 

car, and yet it was then regarded as comparatively 
luxurious. For the price of an inside seat was 
half as much again as that of an outside place. 

When I was a boy the last of the coaches were 
still in their glory. Excepting Chester, perhaps, 
no town in the kingdom could make such a show 
as Aberdeen. At three in the afternoon, groups 
would gather before the Royal Hotel in Union 
Street to see half a dozen coaches or more draw up 
before the door. The Post Office was round the 
corner, and the mails, timed everywhere sharp to 
the minute, were specially well horsed and appointed. 
The guards in their gold-laced scarlet made a 
grand show, and as they climbed to their tripod, a 
fragile-looking seat on iron supports, when the 
coachman had gathered up the reins and the 
helpers had swept the clothes from the horses, 
they woke the street echoes with music, more or 
less melodious. Some were content with a simple 
performance on the ' yard and a half of tin ' ; others, 
with a finer ear for symphonies, played popular airs 
on the key-bugle. The last of the mail bags was 
pitched into the boot, and all the teams were away 
to the chime of the church clocks. The mails were 
admirably horsed, but they were rivalled or excelled 
by the southern ' Defiance.' It was owned by 
Captain Barclay of Ury and Watson of Keillor, a 
wealthy gentleman farmer. In spite of hilly roads 
and the poorer horse provender of the North, it 
ran the Shrewsbury ' Wonder * or the Devonport 



312 DAYS OF THE PAST 

* Quicksilver ' hard. Moreover there was less Hmit 
to luggage than on the mail. Yet summer and 
winter, including stoppages for meals and the 
passage of a stormy ferry with change of coaches, 
it punctually did its ten miles an hour. Lavishly 
horsed as it was, the wear and tear of horse-flesh 
was considerable. In those days I made no 
pretensions to the box seat ; I did not court such 
snubs as gave David Copperiield his first fall in 
life. But I had generally a place immediately 
behind, for I had been recommended to guards and 
coachmen by a relation — an old ally of Barclay's — 
mentioned in Nimrod's Northern Tour as having 
sold Lord Rodney a Tilbury horse for the unprece- 
dented price of seven hundred guineas. It was glory 
to travel by the ' Defiance,' but the great draw- 
back was that early start. It did not go off in the 
afternoon, but at 5 a.m. A few minutes previously 
you were stretching yourself on the pavement 
before the Royal, having swallowed a cup of boiling 
coffee and bolted a crust. ' Up you get,' said the 
friendly guard ; and there you were, with a tight 
overcoat and a flimsy plaid by way of leg wrapper. 
The first two stages were about the bleakest drive 
in bleak north-eastern Scotland. With a bright 
dawn there were magnificent sea-views, but I 
thought of nothing but the jolly breakfast at the 
Mill Inn, Stonehaven. Regularly as the coach 
pulled up at seven, the ' captain ' was to be seen on 
the steps. He was always there to inspect his 



THE LAST OF THE ROAD 



3^0 



teams, and he regularly dined early, in order to meet 
the down coach. What he wanted was horses that 
would go the pace ; and his coachmen were selected 
for his own qualities — strong arms, cool judgment, 
and iron nerve. One memorable morning I had the 
honour of being presented to him by my father, an 
old neighbour of his in the ' Howe of the Mearns/ 
and I well remember what struck me most in the 
old athlete was the twisted cordage of muscle on 
the back of the hands that had dealt so many a 
knock-down blow and mastered so many a team of 
queer ones. His tastes and traditions survived. 
If any county gentleman had a vicious rogue of 
blood with some substance, he was passed on to the 
' Defiance ' and very soon brought to his bearings. 
One day, with Barclay himself on the box seat, we 
ran a reckless race with his neighbour Hepburn of 
Riccarton, who was driving a blood mare in a light 
dogcart. We were passed and repassed, but the 
heavy-weight was out of the running, and the 
captain was much disgusted when beaten on the 
lonof stao-e. With such horses we were not un- 
frequently on the brink of grief. There was a 
changing place on the North Esk, with an awk- 
ward slope to an ugly bridge, and there by some 
fatality we often had trouble. One time our 
leaders were a kicker and a bolter ; the one was 
plunging in the traces, while the other was lashing 
out over the bars. Or on another occasion there 
would be a sullen brute who cast himself down, 



314 DAYS OF THE PAST 

after having an old set of harness thrown under 
his hoofs *to let him dance on the leather,' and 
then could only be persuaded to get up by firing 
an armful of straw under his belly. By that time 
the three yokefellows were all on end, like so 
many unicorns rampant. When the coachman 
could ease the straining wrists, they must have 
nearly torn his arms out of the sockets. It amazes 
me now that accidents were so rare, and the 
smashes and capsizes were far from frequent. 

Another marvel is how, even in these easy-going 
days, the coaches sufficed for the traffic. From 
end to end you must book in advance, in defiance 
of ulterior arrangements or the elements. At 
intermediate stations all was haphazard, especially 
on side roads served by a single 'daily.' Rivals 
were put on the roads, but they generally were 
driven into bankruptcy. At one country house, 
which was very much my home in early days, we 
were lucky in having a blacksmith's forge to wait 
at. Often have I sought shelter by the glow of 
that smithy fire when Vulcan was hammering a 
horse-shoe or fastening a ploughshare. When the 
' Earl of Fife,' sarcastically criticised by ' Nimrod,' 
was sighted rising the brow of the hill, you specu- 
lated anxiously on the roof load and strove to 
count the heads of the passengers. But even if it 
were crowded, by favour of the guard, an active boy 
could generally bestow himself precariously on the 
top of the luggage. Guards and coachmen exer- 



THE LAST OF THE ROAD 315 

cised a despotism, tempered by tips. Proprietors 
who could not control them in details, left a great 
deal in their power. By tacit understanding, if they 
gave a friend a lift, they might pocket the douceur ; 
all that was expected of them was, that they should 
not be found out. They made a good thing of 
the delivery of letters and small parcels, never 
entered in the way bill. The fore boot was under 
the legs of the coachman, as the letter-bags in the 
mails were under the feet of the guard. But on 
the stage coaches the hind boot was a locker opened 
from beneath, and the burly guardian was to be 
seen balancing himself on the back step, extracting 
or tossing in parcels without the coach slackening 
its speed. 

The coachman was wont to get handsome 
perquisites by handing the reins over to aspiring- 
amateurs. The arrangement did not always come 
off so smoothly as might be desired, when there 
were fractious travellers with nerves. I recollect a 
gay young gentleman foolishly taking the driver's 
seat before the start and gathering up the reins 
with a flourish. One of the insides protested in 
vain, till he announced himself as a well-known 
and litigious local lawyer, declaring that unless 
driven by the coachman, he would get out and 
take a postchaise and four at the expense of the 
proprietors. The young Jehu had to knock under 
and climb down ; but he was a youth of resource 
and a part owner to boot, so he forthwith 



3i6 DAYS OF THE PAST 

took out a licence as 'extra coachman,' entitling 
him to peril lives and limbs at his discretion. 

Naturally, with so much in their power, guards 
and coachmen were courted on the road. Nor 
was it altogether out of gratitude for favours to 
come, for it was their business and interest to 
make themselves agreeable, and they were recom- 
mended to their masters by their social qualities. 
I made a memorable night-journey from Inverness 
to Aberdeen on the northern ' Defiance.' It was 
the last professional trip of a popular guard. At 
every stage, friends already * well on ' as Tam 
O'Shanter, were sitting up to give him a ' send- 
off': jovial allies scrambled on to the roof to 
convoy him to the next stage : raw whisky and 
hot toddy flowed like burn water : the night owls 
were roused with song and catch ; and when I 
was dropped in the morning at Inverury, the 
' Defiance,' usually regulated like clock-work, was 
a full hour behind her time. The most remarkable 
tribute to the merits of the guard was that 
neither he nor the coachman were called over the 
coals. 

Borrow makes a savage onslaught on the crack 
coachmen of his time ; but Borrow, with the per- 
versity of his very original talent, was always 
* contrairy ' or in extremes. So far as my ex- 
perience goes, like Mark Twain's quartz mining 
cast, ' I think different.' I found them capital 
fellows, and kindly protectors of unsophisticated 



THE LAST OF THE ROAD 317 

innocence. I knew they were welcome guests in 
many a sporting mansion, cordially invited to the 
dinner-table when the cloth was drawn. One 
instance I recollect, when the rubicund coachman, 
though modestly seated on the edge of the chair, 
joined in the talk with respectful independence, 
but firmly declined a third bumper of old port — 
not that he or his colleagues made a practice of 
temperance elsewhere, and it was marvellous the 
amount of strong liquor those seasoned vessels 
could carry soberly and discreetly. For they were 
hand-in-glove with each jolly landlord down the 
road, and had a fatherly or loverlike smile for every 
blooming barmaid. Yet they lasted well, dying 
for the most part in a green old age. Talking of 
talks with them, I recall another veteran, crippled 
with complications of gout and rheumatism, who 
was persuaded by a friend of mine to cross 
Burntisland Ferry in surveillance of a pair of 
young cobs who were to be broken to harness. 
It was a bachelor household, and he was per- 
suaded to dine with us. He had driven in South 
England as well as the far North, and when he 
dropped into vein of reminiscence, he engrossed 
the conversation. He not only was eloquent on 
experiences of his own, and some of them were 
sensational enough, but he had the traditional 
episodes of the southern flyers at his finger ends, 
in fog, snowstorm, and blizzards. The habitual 
performances of some of the long-distance drivers 



3i8 DAYS OF THE PAST 

might almost surpass in dogged strength of en- 
durance the performance of their great patron 
Captain Barclay, when he walked the thousand 
miles in the thousand hours. He told of the 
notable guards who were at least as tough. Like 
the coachmen they were well conditioned men, who 
had matured and hardened in the service. But 
whereas the coachman could envelop himself in 
box-coats and horse-cloths, the equally bulky 
guard had to face the elements in lighter garments. 
The very tripod on which he perched himself 
seemed to have been devised by the authorities to 
chill his legs and keep him wakeful. The sensa- 
tional days of Bagshot Heath and Epping Forest 
had gone by, when he had an arms' chest with 
blunderbuss and horse-pistols in front of him. 
Nevertheless, no corpulent elderly gentleman in 
the islands more habitually put limbs or life in 
peril. I have referred to the risk in picking up 
parcels, and playing the acrobat over the hind 
boot on a coach in rapid motion. Wrists and 
arms were under the wheels, when he was putting 
on or taking off the drag at a declivity. Or a 
trace would snap to the startling of the team, and 
then he would be down among lively heels in the 
dark to repair damages with the rope he had 
ready for such contingencies. In black fog or 
blinding snow-drift, it was he who had the re- 
sponsibility of guiding the coach, when bearings 
were lost and landmarks obliterated. He stuck 



THE LAST OF THE ROAD 319 

to the craft so long as steerage was any way 
practicable, but when the stranded ship must 
be abandoned, it was his charge to get forward 
with the mails, even if passengers were left to be 
starved or frozen. Deaf to appeals, he unhar- 
nessed the leaders, mounting barebacked on the 
one, and loading the bags on the other. Then 
the heavy weight started to ride postillion over 
perhaps a hundred miles or so of snow-shrouded 
country, where all trace of a highway was lost, 
and which might have puzzled an Arctic explorer. 
Some of the deeds of those men who came in 
to be lifted out of their seat, fainting and frost- 
bitten, deserved the Victoria Cross. I may wind 
up with my own recollection of a comparatively 
trivial incident which happened in my nursery 
days. A guard who was livid with chill, and 
racked with rheumatic pains, came at late day- 
break to the laird's hospitable halls, to seek neither 
a warm bed nor a doctor, but a remount from 
the stables. The horse he had been riding had 
foundered. In fact it had slipped a leg down the 
chimney of a cottage, buried out of sight in the 
snow-fall of one terrible night. 



Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to His Majesty 
at the E'Jinljurgh University Press 



